


There's an Endless Road

by SandyQuinn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Billford - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, awkward car rides, bill is a trash baby, horror that is completely undercut by humour, post summer fic, stanford is a confused old nerd, stanley loves his dumb brother, strange roadside encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/pseuds/SandyQuinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines learns that there is something better out there than a road trip with your estranged twin brother: A road trip with your estranged twin brother and a dream demon who recently tried to murder you and everyone you know! </p>
<p>Well, not actually better, but at least Bill can pick some good songs from the radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdderTwist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdderTwist/gifts).



The Stanmobile took off, less than six days before Mabel’s and Dipper’s birthday. It coughed to life painfully, which was no surprise: it'd been through more damage in one summer than it had been in the past thirty years. 

Stanford had once, on their sixteenth birthday, drawn their handprints on the inside of the door, passenger's side. The car had been Stanley’s, for as much as Stanley had been able to claim anything as his own, but they’d celebrated together. He wondered now, idly, if it was still there, whether Stanley had preserved it like he’d seemed to have preserved everything, as if keeping things the way they were thirty years ago would have somehow magically fixed everything. He couldn’t check, of course. He wasn’t sitting in the front.  

 Not that it was really that important. 

 Stanley drove, of course, being the only one with a valid driver's licence, fake or not, and any experience in driving. He was curiously silent, but that might have had something to do with the third person in the car. Stanford watched his brother's profile for a while as they sped past a blur of trees, and his heart ached, because they were so  _old_ – and yet, he didn't feel old. Maybe it was how people aged, only on the outside, or maybe the Other Side had taken away any sense of time from him, had left him in an aging body but with the memories still fresh in his mind.

 He leaned against the bag taking up half of the backseat, and very gingerly let himself relax just a fraction, just a tad, as the first crisp autumn wind pushed his hair back. He must have been mad, but he truly felt that he was done fighting. He was back home. He'd won. He'd beaten back the apocalypse.

 He hoped that if he kept repeating all of this for long enough, he might even believe it. 

 On the passenger’s seat, Bill Cipher stretched his week old limbs, narrowly avoided punching Stanley in the face, and faked a yawn. Then he attempted to fling himself out of the car. 

 "Child-lock, Bill," Stanford said, without bothering to open his eyes. 

 "And open your seat-belt first," Stanley grunted, rolling his eyes without actually taking them off the road. " _Amateur_." 

 Bill flashed a grin that looked like only an approximate of a real human expression, blinking out of order, first one eye, and then the other. “Wow, I sure am glad I didn’t do that and _deprive myself_ of the horrors I’ll inflict upon you two!”

Stanford was fairly sure that one day, Bill would probably be true to his word, and what they were doing was the equivalent of trying to hold a hurricane in a paper cup. But he was an old man, and he was a tired man, and the world wasn’t ending. He also knew that they’d done the right thing. At least this way, Bill was contained. That was all he could focus on for now. He yawned, and tucked himself down against the bag that smelled like Stanley’s cologne and scratched his cheek and made him feel like he was twelve again, so that he could keep his eyes on Bill's profile. 

He drifted into his first peaceful sleep in roughly thirty years. 

 

* 

 

“It’s better this way,” Mabel had said. She’d looked like the most ancient almost thirteen-year-old girl then, holding Dipper’s hand like she was never letting go, and Stanford had felt scared, gazing into her eyes, until she’d smiled and revealed her braces.

“I mean,” Mabel said, “he wanted a physical form, right?”

Her eyes had glowed and she’d taken the power Bill had so ironically poured into her, and she’d risen like a wrathful goddess, like a star at the end of the world, and –

“I wish everything to be okay again,” Mabel had said, as if she was a genie wishing from herself. Stanford had wanted to scream, because they were meddling with powerful, painful, universe-changing things and there was a little girl playing make-believe and he, he wanted everything to be okay again, more than ever, he’d wanted it since he was seventeen-years-old –

And everything was okay again.

There was the town of Gravity Falls. There were the town’s folk, miraculously alive and unharmed. There was his brother, clutching the children like he was somehow hoping to assimilate their bodies together so he could always protect them. There was the house, wrecked and burnt and beaten but standing, very much like Stanford.

There was Bill Cipher on the ground, reduced into a human body through Mabel’s complete disregard for any sort of natural or magical laws that had allowed her to do practically whatever she’d wanted.

Stanford stared at the pathetic limp figure while the sky above him turned back to blue, and he thought about every single scenario he’d imagined during the last thirty-odd years for defeating Bill. Truth to be told, he’d always had a lot more active role in most of them. In about half of them he’d been able to spit into Bill’s solitary gigantic eye, but he probably had two of them now. (He couldn’t make out Bill’s face yet, due to the hair.) It was funny – he’d always thought he’d been so painstakingly realistic, so very strict in his imagination, and yet, this felt so real it felt almost _boring_.

Stanford steadied himself, and then walked up to the figure that had not yet stirred, leaning down and said, quite clearly, as if summoning still worked.

“Bill Cipher.”

“Uhh,” Stanley said behind him. “I don’t think he can hear you, Ford. I think he’s kind of – you know, _unconscious_.” 

“I’m trying to wake him up,” Stanford muttered. Behind his back, he could _hear_ Stanley pulling a face. 

“ _Why_?”

“Because-“ Stanford started, quite heatedly, and stopped. Dipper and Mabel had trailed after Stanley, and they were staring at him, and Stanford didn’t know how to explain to Dipper that he wanted Bill awake while he ground his face into fine paste.

“Because we need to figure out what to do with him,” he said, catching himself. “This was a very fine idea, Mabel – a very fine idea, indeed, but what on Earth are we supposed to – well, do with him now?” He gestured at the body on the ground. “We can’t very well unleash him to this world. Even without any of his power he’s still highly dangerous.”

Mabel shrugged. “Hey, I figured we’d think of something.” Her eyes lit up abruptly. “Oh! Demon harness!”

“I’m not carrying Bill Cipher around like Waddles, sweetie,” Stanley said hastily.

“We could make him into one of your exhibits, Grunkle Stan!” Dipper exclaimed abruptly, joining in on the impromptu brainstorming session.

“Hah, yeah, about that –“

“Let’s make _Soos_ carry him around!”

“Dude, not cool!” Soos called out from somewhere behind the rubble.

Stanford felt the conversation was rapidly spiraling out of his control. 

It was at this moment that the horrible demon that had nearly caused their world to be destroyed decided to stir, and he leapt for the chance to push things back on track. While his family flinched back, he moved forward, crouching down and grabbing Bill by his hair, dragging his head upright just to come face to face with two utterly unconvincing human eyes.

“Hello, Bill,” Stanford said, grimly. “Guess what? You lost.”

 

*

 

Stanford jerked awake from a blessedly dreamless sleep when Stanley parked the car. Somehow it had gotten dark between the time he’d been last awake and the time he woke up, and he could blearily make out lights outside. He wondered why he was having so much trouble focusing, until he realized he was missing his glasses.

“Looking for these?” Bill leered at him from the front seat. Stanford narrowed his eyes until he could make out Bill, who’d somehow managed to put Stanford’s glasses on upside down, but even that sight managed to jolt Stanford into full alertness, and he scrambled upright.

“Give those back to me!”

“Oh no, did I take away your precious seeing device?” Bill laughed. “That you need because your body’s _defective_? Mine’s so good it’s actively _rejecting_ this thing!” He paused and looked mildly nauseated. “Seriously, my head feels weird.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Stanley said gruffly. “I told ya, only until he wakes up. Give ‘em back.”

Stanford was appalled when he realized that Stanley was talking to Bill like he talked to the _kids_. It was even more appalling when Bill tossed the glasses back at Stanford, and batted his eyelashes at Stanley. Out of order, again, but still. 

“So, gonna release me from the _child-lock_ now, Stanford’s brother?”

“Just call me Stanley,” Stanley said, a little irritably. “Or – Ley, or something, sheesh. And yeah, just let me – “ The car made the familiar weird rattling sound as the doors unlocked, but Stanford had precious few nano-seconds to waste on nostalgia before what Stanley had done hit him like a ton of bricks, incidentally, just as Bill bolted out of the car.

“You – _idiot_!” he hissed, shaking himself free from the seatbelt and flinging himself out of the car after Bill – ignoring Stanley calling after him – and sure enough, Bill was making his way towards a diner with its brightly lit windows apparently calling him like a moth to the flame. There were _people_ inside. Stanford wasted no time to do anything except let his reflexes take care of it, as he crossed the parking lot and slammed into Bill, tackling him against the window with an undignified squeaking sound from Bill’s side.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snarled as Bill struggled against the glass.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” Bill snapped back, albeit muffledly.

“You were _running away_ -“

“Uh, actually, I thought we could grab a bite to eat,” Stanley said, his voice colourless as he appeared next to them. “Y’know. From a diner.” 

Stanford lifted his head to meet about a dozen pair of eyes staring at them.

“How about you let go of him?” Stanley said almost gently, although he seemed to know better than to lay a hand on Stanford. “Before anyone calls the cops for assaulting – uh – “

It had seemed Mabel had either overthought or potentially just winged it when it came to certain things about Bill’s appearance, which meant that while Bill was generally a passable human, it was impossible to ascribe any certain gender on him for sure on the first glance. Or even the second, or third glance. It had seemed to work out just fine, considering Bill had absolutely no interest in the topic, but it had generated some buzz when they’d suddenly been in a hurry to put some clothes on him and realized that absolutely anything goes.

“For assaulting a weird guy in a Disco Girl t-shirt,” Stanley ended, lamely.

“Sheesh, Sixer! Paranoid much?” Bill jeered. Stanford stared into the faces of the innocent strangers he’d been trying to protect, people were looking at him like he was insane - he was trying to remember that everything was okay now, everything was okay again. Mabel had said so, and for that brief, brief moment, she’d been a god…

Stanford shoved Bill away, tearing his eyes away from the window, grunting. “Right. Dinner. Good, yes, let’s do that.”

Maybe Mabel’s magic had only lasted for as long as she’d been able to hold on to her powers. At any rate, it seemed like the world was rapidly getting back to business as usual. 

 

*

 

Of course Stanford had wanted nothing more than to simply celebrate. Bill Cipher was temporarily tied to the totem pole outside, yelling obscenities and horrifying fortunes to anyone who came close, and they were alive. He’d only meant to take a peek at the computer, just a quick glance at the monitors that surveyed the area to make sure that everything really _was_ okay again. But when he’d finally managed to tear himself from Dipper who seemed hell-bent on trying to hold his hand, and made his way downstairs with a cup of Mabel juice mixed with brandy (Stanley’s own concoction) he almost choked on the godawful drink when he saw the readings.

He started planning a getaway in the next hour. Which was, of course, when Stanley caught him trying to move tins of tuna into the car, and quite unfairly made a huge fuss about it.

“What do you mean, you’re _leaving_?” Stanley growled, gripping his wrist tightly. It had gotten dark, normal night-time dark, and the kids were sleeping, and Stanley was keeping his voice low the best as he could but it climbed up at the end of his sentence as if exploding out of him.

“What Bill did wasn’t neat,” Stanford replied, feeling his voice brimming with tension, feeling every inch of his body vibrating with the need to go, to fix, as soon as possible, before the nightmare started all over. “What he did was messy and unforgivable, and he’s left – well, _trails_. There is a radius outside Gravity Falls still affected by the weirdness – there might possibly be even miniature versions of the rift around. I need to find them, and contain them. You- the kids have done enough. This was my fault to begin with.”

“You mean, it’s your fault when it suits you,” Stanley said, low and bitter.

“I mean, let me do this, Ley!” Stanford snapped, yanking his wrist free. Stanley was staring at him in the darkness – god, he looked too much like dad – like some kind of an angry pitbull, moonlight catching on his glasses, his shoulders hunched, head set deep between their massive width – and suddenly, he looked tired.

“First you say you’re gonna kick me out,” he said, hoarsely. “And now you’re planning to run away in the night? You _really_ don’t want to be around me, do you, Ford?”

“It’s not about that,” said Stanford who suddenly felt like there was something dry and uncomfortable at the bottom of his throat, when the conversation switched to this. “It’s about safety. You should stay here with the kids, someone should –“

“And you were just gonna leave – that thing with us?” Stanley demanded lowly, pointing at Bill. Bill stirred, and then tried to wave. Then he made a gesture Stanford knew for a fact was rude in at least twenty-seven dimensions, theirs not included.

He didn’t know how to proceed with what he was going to say next, but he didn’t have to. Stanley, as per usual, read his face and comprehended.

“ _You_ –“ he whispered, voice rasping. “You were going to take _him_ with you?”

“I thought he might be useful,” Stanford said, keeping his voice even, staring somewhere at Stanley’s left shoulder, as passive as he could be to not further incite anything. He understood, of course he understood, why Stanley might be annoyed, because Stanley took everything personally and assumed that Stanford’s world revolved around him – as if siblings were the most important thing in the world. They were there on the list, of course (he added in his mind, hastily), but he was trying to keep everyone safe. And Stanley was obviously hell-bent on making it as difficult as possible.

“ _You were going to take your little buddy on the road_ ,” Stanley – basically growled, pushing Stanford back against the car. “You were going to take _my car_ , and take off without a word – no, no, you know what. You’re not gonna do this.”

“Ley, be reasonable,” Stanford started lowly, evenly, trying to squash down Stanley's anger, trying to keep him at bay. He used to be able to do it, didn't he? Stanley took a sudden step back, spreading his arms mockingly.

“Wow, hey, reasonable! Ya wanna take off without any ID, with some – megalomaniac dorito who tricked you once before, in the dead of the night? Fine! Let's do it reasonably!”

“All right, so –“ Stanford started again, uncertainly.

“It’s therefore reasonable,” Stanley said, looking like he was gritting his teeth. “That your _brother_ , who does in fact remember how driving works and who _owns_ the car and has _money_ comes along with you.”

Stanford gaped at him, suddenly having a flashback to their entire childhood. Stanley stood there, in the moonlight, glaring at him unpleasantly, curling and uncurling his fingers, like a surly child throwing a tantrum, like he had, in fact, looked once upon a time, like time had merely added some decorative touch. He also looked sorely like he wanted to punch Stanford, and Stanford couldn’t begrudge him for that, because he felt like pulling his hair out.  

“You don’t even _want to_ ,” Stanford said, realization hitting him. Stanley said nothing, which just confirmed it. “You’re just – what? I’m offering you to stay in the damn house, with the kids! I was even going to take Bill away, to make it _safe_ to be in Gravity Falls – why are you making this so difficult, Stanley? What possible _joy_ can you derive from the two of us in the car with _him_ , for days? Is – do you think you can fix something this way? Let it go, Ley! Can’t we just – let this damn thing _go_?”

“You mean our relationship?” Stanley asked tensely, his voice sounding dry.

Stanford reacted before he could think. “Yes!”

Stanley stared at him blankly, a stranger with the most familiar face Stanford had ever seen. And he felt bad, he felt incredibly bad, and he wanted to take it back, but he didn’t – because Stanley was a stranger to him, and frankly, from what he remembered, maybe it was better this way.

Suddenly, Stanley smiled mirthlessly, unpleasantly. “Nah. I think I’ll just keep on making a nuisance of myself, _bro_.”

Stanford suddenly felt incredibly tired.

“Some brother,” he said.

“Yeah,” Stanley said, sounding like he echoed Stanford’s feelings, like they had both just settled on being wearily unpleasant at each other. “Some brother. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Stanford turned, his mind racing to review the whole conversation, and in the darkness he met a pair of glowing, yellow eyes, fixed on him so intensely it made his skin crawl. Suddenly, quite out of the blue, he remembered that feeling of ease he’d once felt for them, that casual elation whenever Bill was just _there_ , in the corners of his mind or whispering in his ear, when Bill had made everything feel _just sort of more right_ just by existing.

He’d probably felt like that about Stanley too, once upon a time.  

“Build a pyramid!” Bill yelled at him from across the yard. “It’ll last longer!”

Stanley had already returned inside. Stanford turned, took one last glance of the car, and then walked back into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

The diner had sticky floors, and shiny plastic colours that were probably meant to seem more modern but just made Stanford feel strangely at home, which was probably not what you wanted with a man still mentally living in thirty years ago. A few people were staring at them from the debacle outside, but they kept silent as they drifted inside. Keeping his fist bunched up in Bill’s shirt, Stanford made his way to the only empty booth, next to a young couple with a screaming, crying toddler. The kid was probably why the booth was vacant in the first place: the child of indiscriminate gender seemed to have evolved into that stage of mindless, high-pitched shrieking that could not be placated by anything except possibly a gag. The kid’s parents seemed like they would be considering that option if they weren’t so enormously exhausted, and the mother leaned down to try to pull her child on her lap, to no avail. The floor was a much better stage for the tantrum, after all.

Bill stopped on his tracks, just as Stanley was taking his seat, staring at the child with unreadable, unblinking eyes, waiting, patiently – and suddenly the child fell silent, red-faced and teary, staring at Bill quietly.

Bill smiled, not very pleasantly.

“ _Sit down_ ,” Stanford said in one sharp exhale, pulling Bill’s shirt. He felt his heart start beating in his chest again, unpleasantly, and he realized: it wasn’t over. He’d gone from an enemy that lurked behind every corner to a live bomb he was forced to handle every passing second of his life, and for a moment he wanted to laugh hysterically. Instead he squashed down the panic, squashed it down, repressed it violently, and he was calm again. Thirty years living like this, and he could afford to live like it some more.

Bill pulled his gaze away, and slid into the booth opposite Stanley. The child started crying again, slowly.

“Nice place,” Stanley grunted. “Someone needs to put a muzzle on that kid, though.” He passed the illustrated children’s menu to Bill, thoughtfully, and Stanford felt again a brief stab of irritation, even though it was obvious they couldn’t very well go without feeding the demon every once in a while.

“Bill hypnotized him, for just a second,” he said, grabbing the menu, his tone poisonous. “Somehow. Although he isn’t supposed to have any power left so maybe the child is just fascinated with extreme deformity.”

“Ha ha!” said Bill, who’d apparently opted for ignoring what he didn’t care about, and stabbed at the menu with his finger, pointing at a banana split. “I want this!” 

“Any chance you could spook the lil tyke again?” Stanley asked, pushing his pinkie in his ear and wiggling it there. He also elbowed Stanford in the ear – it was a tight fit on one side with the two of them, but Stanford wasn’t about to sit next to Bill, not with the cutlery in so close reach. The child kept on screaming – as Stanford leaned to inspect it, he couldn’t really find anything particularly adorable on the poor creature, with the red, blotchy, bloated face and the unappealing ginger hair. He wondered if the parents were as sick of the kid as everyone else in the diner were.

“There’s a chance for nearly anything, Stanley, including that we all spontaneously combust! Poof!” Bill cackled, and then pointed at the menu again. “This thing! The yellow one!”

“It’s the most expensive thing in there!” Stanley complained. “Just have some chicken nuggets or something.”

“Can I have a hat?”

“Can you – what? There’s no hat in the menu!”

“Quit acting out, Bill,” Stanford interrupted, with not much hope. The crying in the background was starting to give him a headache.

Bill turned his eerie, uncomfortably non-blinking eyes to Stanford, grinning. “Oh, no! Am I bothering ya, Stanford? Gee, I sure hope my presence doesn’t start making you _uncomfortable_!” He reached out, never breaking eye-contact with Stanford, and tipped over the salt shaker.

“Is that it?” Stanford asked lowly. “Are you trying to piss me off so we’ll release you? Bill, I’d rather just hog-tie you and throw you in the trunk of a car –“

Stanley let out a little guffaw. “Oh, I’ve done that!” He paused, making a face. “Not when I’m this old, though, my joints don’t bend like they used to.”

“…Anyway,” Stanford said. “You should know we’re not going to let you free from that body. And I have no qualms about hurting you – the only reason you have it so good now is that we might find use for you later.” He leaned closer, to make himself absolutely clear, lowering his voice even more, his voice absolutely cold as he spoke next. “You have no chips to play here, Bill. We can keep you around, technically alive and trapped in that thing, for as long as we want. So I’d suggest you find some way to _make us happy_ for once in your miserable existence. I realize it’s a new concept, so I’ll let you mull it over.”

Bill narrowed his eyes at Stanford, for a long, unusually silent moment, as if he was doing that.

Then he reached out, slowly, and tipped over the pepper shaker.

The table rattled abruptly, because Stanford tried to stand up, fury spiking in his chest, and he found himself trapped by the ridiculously small space between the bench and table, banging both of his knees somehow to the underside of the hard red plastic and falling back against the bench. Bill leaned back, hurriedly, and for one heartbeat Stanford thought he saw his eyes widen…

“Hi, how’re you?” a perky young woman in an apron appeared, materializing seemingly out of nowhere. “Did you guys already get a look at the menus or –“ she paused, staring at Stanford.

“He’s really enthusiastic for the cheeseburger,” Stanley piped up. “Jesus, Ford, just – sit down, willya?” Stanford felt the back of his neck heat up. Stanley had always done this, acted like Stanford was some great fool while he himself came off cool and suave, and once again he found himself struck mute by embarrassment. As waitress stared at him curiously, and he sunk back down. He purposefully avoided looking at Bill, in case the demon was gloating. 

“That’s great!” the waitress beamed, rallying heroically.

“Isn’t it?” Stanley joined in, kindly, clasping Stanford’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe how long it’s been for this one!”

The waitress flashed a smile, both alarmed and entertained. “Well, for starters, I can get you guys some drinks, if you’re ready to order, so-“

“Hello, Angela!” Bill piped up abruptly: positively purring. “Be a doll, why don’tcha, and get me this thing right here, see, this thing has pictures, ain’t that convenient- ”

“I told you,” Stanley started, exasperated, but Stanford stared at the waitress, who’d turned white as a sheet as soon as Bill had addressed her. He looked at Bill – Bill was looking at _him_ , and no one else.

“Ah,” she said, clearing her throat, her voice quieter now, as if she’d suddenly lost that professional edge. “Um – it’s Annie, actually.” She fumbled with her apron. “Here, I have a name-tag-“

“Oh, my bad!” Bill slapped his forehead theatrically, his eyes wide and vicious, fixated on Stanford. “Angela’s _the other one,_ isn’t it? The sister who went missing! You guys just look so much alike – or you would, we don’t know now, don’t we! Sheesh, talk about an elbow in my mouth, am I right?”

A sudden hush of silence fell at the table.

“I think it’s a foot,” Stanley said, subduedly, also staring at Annie the waitress. She’d gone positively ashen now. “You okay there, Miss?”

“Yeah,” Annie said, very quietly, swallowing. She was staring right ahead – at her mirror image, in the window. “I – excuse me.” And she turned, mechanically, like she had to force her body to go through the motions, fleeing the table.

Bill followed her with his gaze, eagerly, hungrily. Right then and there, Stanford hated him so much, and it came blissfully easily.

Stanley reached out over the table, abruptly, cuffing Bill.

“Ow!” Bill blinked, holding his head. “What – don’t ever touch me like that, Stanford’s brother!”

“Then don’t involve other people in your weird mindgames with Ford!” Stanley snapped. “In fact, quit that crap out altogether! And couldn’t you have _at least_ waited till we gave her our order?”

Bill grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now where’s the fun in that? I gotta keep myself from getting bored _somehow_.” Stanley made an exasperated sound, pushing his fingers underneath his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You’re boring,” Stanford said, abruptly. Bill froze mid-motion.

“Say what now?”

“I’m saying you’re boring,” Stanford said, flatly. He looked at Bill, matching his lack of blinking with an even stare. “You’re stale. You’re predictable. Oh, you’re going to be nasty, now?” Bill opened his mouth – Stanford interrupted him before he could say anything. “You know – you were _much more interesting_ as a Muse of Knowledge.”

Bill closed his mouth. And then opened it again, looking indignant. And then closed it again, his eyes narrowing in a squint. Stanford leaned back, staring at the demon, suddenly calm because _apparently_ , if there was one way to get through Bill, it was through his ego. Bill actually looked like he was considering Stanford’s words, expression… displeased.

Annie returned, wiping her face, studiously avoiding looking at Bill, addressing Stanley instead. “Sorry, I forgot to –“

Bill reached out, grasping her wrist abruptly, and she flinched.

“There’s a one-street hick town six miles from here,” he said. “It’s not on a map or any road sign, it doesn’t have a name or a mayor. There’s a street, there are the houses, and there’s a church. Go there. Walk up to the last house at the end, next to the church, the house with the white curtains and the roof with the chipped blue paint. Don’t look at any of the other houses. Don’t look at the windows. Don’t look who’s inside. Go up to the house, and knock on the door.”

“What-“ Annie the waitress started. Bill looked at her, abruptly, and she was struck as mute as the screaming toddler from earlier.

“And when you _leave_ ,” Bill said, lowly, silkily. “Don’t look back to see whether she’s following you.”

Annie stared at Bill’s bizarre yellow eyes, but she didn’t seem to be registering how strange they were. It was like she was trying to read his mind, read between his words, her face begging to know whether he was talking about what she thought he was.

Bill let go of her wrist, suddenly. “I’m not repeating that.”

“You should probably write that down,” Stanley piped up suddenly, clearing his throat.

“You should probably go,” Stanford said, staring at Bill. He had _no idea_ what had prompted the demon to do that.

“Oh,” Annie said. She stood there for a second, then another – and then she turned, without a word. She was pulling her apron off as she walked away.

“We still didn’t get to order,” Stanley sighed, but he sounded begrudging this time. 

“Not so predictable after all, huh!” Bill said, examining his nails casually – and for the first time Stanford examined _him_ , properly. It had been hard to focus on anything except the eyes, before, and Stanford had willfully avoided taking in the whole effect, letting his gaze slip past whenever he could.

Bill liked to grin, and it suited him: it was _familiar_ , even when Bill had never had a mouth of his own before. His hair kept slipping over one eye as if the universe was hell-bent on keeping up certain appearances, and the glow of his eyes contrasted with the colour of his skin. It was all very well and good – Bill was actually neither handsome, nor particularly ugly – but somehow it struck Stanford, suddenly, how _tangible_ he was.

He looked away, because it suddenly felt like too much.

The toddler started screaming, once again.

He wondered whether the coursing chemicals, the beating heart, would be able to change anything in Bill’s otherworldly nature.

“That’s it,” Stanley grunted. “Shove off, pointdexter, I’m getting us a new waiter.”

“You can have three things,” Stanford said abruptly, looking at Bill. “If you can make that child quiet again.” He paused, and then added hastily. “Without harming anybody.”

“Three things?” Bill looked intrigued – of course, it _was_ the magic number.

“No physical or emotional harm can come to the child,” Stanford repeated.

“Sure, sure! I won’t harm a child, any child!”

“Bill,” said Stanford who’d learned to pay attention to these things. “ _The_ child in question. The one crying a few feet away.”

“That child,” Bill said serenely, but his eyes were gleaming, like he knew more. “Will not be hurt by me today.”

It was close as he could get. Stanford sighed – he was already regretting this. “You’ll get three things.”

“All right! It’s a _deal_ , Sixer!” Bill reached over the table, holding out his hand eagerly.

“I’m not shaking that,” Stanford said flatly. Stanley sat back down, pushed his elbows on the table, and for once, wisely remained silent.

“Then we don’t have a deal, do we,” Bill said, mouth twisting in a nasty shape, like he was trying for pleasant.

“Then you don’t eat,” Stanford said, quietly, calmly. “Your choice, Bill.”

Bill stared at him blankly for a moment, not blinking, and then rose up to his feet abruptly. “Sheesh! Fine! But you know this isn’t how I do things!”

He stomped his way over to the other booth, while Stanley and Stanford leaned out of the booth in perfect unison.

Bill stopped by the child, ignoring the startled mother who was trying to unsuccessfully eat her eggs, _looked_ at the toddler for a moment until it stopped crying again – and then he crouched down, cupped his hands so very carefully, and leaned in to whisper.

“I’m sorry, what are you- “ the mother started, agitated and indignant, while the father lifted his head from his dazed contemplation of the newspaper.

Bill pulled back, abruptly, and stood up, giving Stanford a smug look and pointing at his eye meaningfully, before he winked, clumsily. The child had the most peculiar, thoughtful expression on their face.

The whole diner had fallen silent, with the sudden absence of the wailing. About half the diners had turned to stare at the spectacle. It was as if they were collectively holding their breath, waiting to see whether the crying would start again.

The child lifted their tear-streaked face to their mother, and then said, sweetly, quietly. “Mama, I love you.”

Stanford stared at the young mother’s face, her expression twisting from shock to uncertainty, to brief horror, before she settled on startled acceptance – and then (and this made something twist uncomfortably in Stanford’s gut, why had he let Bill interfere) she teared up.

“I love you too, pumpkin,” she said, her voice trembling, and she leaned down to pick up her child, who reached for her arms, suddenly eager to be held. The scene was set, the curtain fell, a few of the clientele wiped their eyes.

Bill flopped back onto his side of the booth, teeth bared, viciously smug once again. “Three things, Sixer.”

“Pick them from the menu,” Stanford said distractedly, staring at the mother and child.

“You never said anything about the menu!” Bill piped up, triumphantly. “I want a _hat_!”

“What the blazes did you do?” Stanley demanded, incredulously, echoing Stanford’s thoughts. He seemed actually excited. “Hell, if I knew how to deal with kids like _that_ –“

“I’m not buying you a hat, Bill.”

“Do this, Bill,” Bill said mockingly. “Put it in small words for me, Bill! Explain that to me, Bill! Y’know, if you’re not even gonna hold your end of the bargain –“

Stanley took off his fez, and plopped it on Bill’s head. “You’re not keeping that, but it ought to hold you for a while.”

Bill squinted upwards, going cross-eyed for a moment, and then shrugged. “It was easy! I just had to share a few trade secrets.”

“Excuse me?” Stanford interrupted, sharply.

“They _probably_ won’t work on Shooting Star and Pine Tree,” Bill added, peacefully. “After all, they have some idea of what it’s like to be a human.”

“…Huh?” Stanley said, his brows furrowing.

Stanford leaned to peer past Bill, at the child again. The ugly toddler sat on his mother’s lap, lifted its head, and met Stanford’s eyes, far more intelligent than it should be, and _smiled_.

Stanford lowered his gaze to meet a nearly identical smile playing on Bill’s lips. He felt cold. He’d been wrong. There was no way Bill would become any more human like this.

“It’s called a _changeling_ ,” Bill was saying, casually, to Stanley. “And it’s gonna have a _much_ easier time from now on.”

But it seemed everything else would become a lot less human around Bill.

* 

In the end, Stanford folded Bill a hat out of napkins, to Stanley's great amusement. He'd always been good at origami. Stanley had used to laugh about it, mock him. 

He _had_ expected mockery, but Bill seemed genuinely mystified and delighted, opting to wear the damn thing in the car. He wasn't sure whether he should feel gratified or not, this being Bill Cipher and all, so he opted out of feeling anything at all as he climbed into the backseat. 

Stanley rustled on the driver's seat with the map where Stanford had drawn the radius and the hot-spots they were checking out. "Turn on the radio, why don'tcha, Ahab?" 

Bill leaned to smash the buttons enthusiastically, and Stanley had to reach out hastily to bat his hands away. 

"Don't break it! I'm gonna listen to the lottery numbers while we drive!" 

Bill laughed. "Lottery! Whooboy, lemme save you some time, Stanley -" 

"Never in a million years, yeah, yeah, I know," Stanley said, grumpily. "Let the man dream, why don'tcha? I _like_ buying that ticket." 

"Oh, well in that case!" Bill shrugged, leaning back, crossing his legs daintily. "I was just going to -" 

"No," Stanley said, sternly. 

"But -" 

Stanley started the car. "Bill, Stanford had no qualms about putting you in the trunk - _I_ have no qualms about strapping you onto the roof. Shut your yap for half an hour, willya?"

"He doesn't understand the concept," Stanford muttered, closing his eyes. "Trust me, he's been in my head." 

"You wanna bet?" Bill piped up, aggressively. He paused. They all sat in expectant silence for about thirty seconds. 

"Well, _do you_ -" Bill started and Stanley groaned loudly. 

"Sheesh! Fine, I know when my input isn't wanted! But you'll be sorry!" Bill flopped sulkily against the window. 

"Regretting it more and more every passing minute!" Stanley said, cheerfully, leaning to turn the volume up and start the car. 

They managed to drive for ten minutes, while a perky female voice announced the numbers. Stanford let himself be lulled into a daze, in the hum of the car and the blissful absence of Bill's grating voice. 

"Anyway, I could've just toldya the right numbers." 

The car screeched into a sudden, loud, painful halt and Stanford found himself suddenly rolling into the crevasse between the seats, just as Bill started laughing. 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“A car!”

Stanford woke up in a startled jolt when Stanley yelped, suddenly wide awake, sitting up in the backseat. They were driving towards the sunset, and he made the mistake of looking at it, suddenly blinded by the light.

“What – what happened?” he demanded, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s when you see a _certain type_ of a car, moron,” he heard Stanley grumble. “Don’t just hit me every time we pass a car!”

“Another car!”

“Ow! Damnit, Bill!”

Bill laughed – Stanford squinted his eyes, and he could make him out, the light pouring in bucketfuls into the front seat, giving Bill’s dark hair the most ironic halo in the world, his head tilted back, eyes shut. Stanley, still driving, was also rubbing his arm grumpily.

“Ahhh,” Bill sighed, “well, now I’m bored again. What else do you do, besides use your eyes to spot moving objects?”

“Well,” Stanley cleared his throat, and paused for a moment. “Ford, help me out here – what did we used to do on road trips?”

“What are you doing, Stanley?” Stanford asked quietly. He felt nauseous, his head fuzzy from the restless sleep, and things had gotten entirely too friendly while he’d been unconscious. And he _hated_ that his first knee-jerk response was to belt into a rendition of _This Is a Song That Never Ends._

“Alleviating boredom,” Stanley responded, keeping his eyes fixedly on the road. “What, were we – supposed to spend all this time in grim silence?”

“We’re on a _mission_ ,” Stanford started, glancing at Bill uncomfortably, to see whether he was listening in, what he thought – not that he cared what Bill thought, somehow squabbling like this just felt – _foreign_ in front of the dream demon. But Bill was staring at Stanley’s profile, and Stanford couldn’t make out his expression. He continued. “Can’t you at least pretend like you’re taking this seriously?”

Stanley fell silent. _Please listen_ , Stanford thought _. Just please be serious, Stanley_. It was the mantra from his childhood.

“I spy,” Stanley started, his voice gruff. “With my little eye, something beginning with… P.”

Stanford sagged against their bags, sighing. “A pine tree?” he muttered.

“A pointdexter?” Bill suggested, cheerfully.

“No,” Stanley said, grimly. “It starts with a P and ends in _rick_.” Stanford met his eyes in the rear-view mirror, if only briefly, because Stanley had to return back to the road, but the message was clear. And of course, once again, Stanford was the villain for pointing out they shouldn’t be relaxing in a time like this.

“I don’t get this game!” Bill complained. “Can’t we play something _I_ know, like Predict the Cause of Death?”

“That might be fun,” Stanley admitted.

They launched onto the game, and Stanford, sitting alone in the backseat, stared blankly at the back of Stanley’s head. He felt sorry for even the briefest jab of worry he’d had when he’d woken up to Stanley’s voice.

Why the hell was Stanley cutting Bill so much slack, anyway? It was _painfully_ obvious what Bill was doing – Stanley was kind, in his own rough way, he was much more open to flattery, and Bill obviously saw he couldn’t get back to _Stanford’s_ good graces. Stanford knew Stanley could be a little dim sometimes, but was he really _that_ blind?

And suddenly Stanford realized – aside from the Weirdmageddon, Stanley might not have ever come across Bill before. The distant monstrous figure and this laughing, living breathing creature in a human shell, who was currently sitting on the front seat with his legs curled up against the dashboard – were the _only_ versions of Bill Cipher that Stanley really knew.

No wonder Bill had found it so easy. And he probably knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

“- with the turtle still firmly lodged in his throat!”

“Not bad, Ace!” Bill said, seeming genuinely surprised. “Y’know, you’ve got a pretty demonic mind!”

“Ahhah,” Stanley said, awkwardly. “You – really didn’t have to say that. And what did’ya call me – Ace?”

Bill shrugged, his movements as exaggerated as they could be for a being who was use to big gestures to make up for their extreme lack of shoulders. “Just a lil nickname! I happen to be fond of ‘em! Especially if I happen to forget which human’s which, happens more often than you think…”

“Ace,” Stanley repeated, as he drove on. Stanford couldn’t see his face but he could hear that he wasn’t displeased. “Well, it could be worse. _I’ve_ definitely been called worse.”

“What did you say to me when we first met?” Stanford piped up, suddenly. He’d felt his throat get drier just listening to the conversation, and he wasn’t sure what he was saying, just that he had to – _stop_ this. “That I’d – get a heart-attack when I was ninety-two? Was that true? You seem to be fond of talking about how we die.”

“You still remember that?” Bill crooned, craning his neck to peer at Stanford, flashing a nasty grin. “Props to your memory, Sixer!”

“Bill here,” Stanford said, evenly, staring at Stanley’s right ear, “he’s sort of like a leech. He likes to take people, and squeeze every bit of happiness, drive and ambition out of them. He came to me when I was vulnerable – all of a sudden, he was my best friend, my _mentor_.”

“So? Bill asked, a little sharply now. “Maybe _I_ didn’t warn you – but you were _warned_ , buddy boy. You saw those paintings. You translated it. And you called for me anyway.”

“He gave me nicknames too,” Stanford said, voice hard. “He still called me those when he turned on me. It was all a game to him.”

“You two were friends?” Stanley asked, sounding – actually a little surprised, and Stanford felt a little encouraged, even if he’d hoped Stanley focused on the – betrayal part.

Suddenly he realized Bill had turned around properly, staring at Stanford – the last light of the sun still shone behind him, rendering the details on his face dark while his eyes stood out, like golden holes in the reality.

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’tcha?” Bill said lowly. “Not like I ever gave you anything worthwhile – not like you didn’t _lap it up,_ Sixer, what I offered, oh no, poor Stanford Pines, led blindly by the nose. Maybe I orchestrated a thing or two – but _you_ chose _me_.”

“Are you trying to insinuate I _deserved_ it?” Stanford asked, incredulous, his heart clenching in his chest, because Bill’s eyes were gleaming unpleasantly and a tiny, ugly voice in his head was trying to say something. “What, did my brain dress provocatively? Did I – “

“Well, for a smart guy, you sure never asked any _questions_!” Bill snapped. “You seemed pretty darn happy with what we were doing – what, did you think I asked you to join me for a _laugh_? Did you think I wasn’t _serious_?”

“You honestly thought,” Stanford reared back, stunned, because Bill seemed too aggressive suddenly, like he was somehow getting too close, and his head felt bizarrely light. “You thought I would – You thought –“

Bill let out a frustrated noise, slamming his palm against the window – making both Pineses jump.

“You know, it was cute at first!” Bill snapped, baring his teeth. “I’m not good, or nice – what a shocker, a being of pure energy who doesn’t subscribe to some light-weight monkey philosophy! Watching you wrangle with some pre-conceived notions of morality – well, I figured you’d get over it! You had the _hunger_ that invited me in!” He leaned between the seats – Stanley made a noise, but Bill continued, his voice hard and grating, always too loud, like he lived on a different volume. “Did you honestly think you were a _good_ human, Stanford Pines?”

Stanford felt his heart hum in his ears, his mind a jumble of contradictions, thoughts jumping up to strangle one another. Had he known? _Should_ he have known? He opened his mouth.

“Of course he’s a good – person,” Stanley said, abruptly.

“Oh yeah? How do _you_ know?” Bill demanded, leaning back to stare at Stanley. “How do you really know? Been keeping up with him in the past forty years much? I’ve been in his dreams! I’ve been in his _mind_!”

Stanley glanced at Bill – and flashed a small, crooked smile. “I know, because you say he’s not. Quit trying to psyche him up, you lil creep.”

Bill stared at Stanley. Then he barked out a cackle, suddenly. “Well, you got me there, Ace!”

“I think we’ve had enough games,” Stanley said, smiling tightly. “Let’s look for a place to spend the night, yeah?” He met Stanford’s eyes in the mirror again, eyebrows twitching – asking for confirmation, and maybe something else too.

“Right,” Stanford said, forcing himself to swallow, to start breathing again. “Good idea. Let’s stop for the night.”

*

They found a motel, and Stanley ushered Bill inside – “go crazy on the free biscuits, buddy” – while Stanford lingered outside, staring at the benign, _normal_ starry sky and gulped the cool air, trying to get his bearings. He had no idea how it had turned over its head like that – he’d just tried to tell Stanley what Bill was really like. Apparently Bill was still capable of twisting everything around, shining his ugly light on everything.

Bill had gotten angry, though. That must not have looked very good in Stanley’s eyes. It was something – Bill had slipped up.

When Stanley walked back to the car, he stirred and turned to look at him.

“We need to –“ he started, and Stanley grunted, interrupting him. “Yeah, we do.”

“You need to be careful,” Stanford said. “I never told you all the things he did – I – I have to say, I was ashamed –“

“And you didn’t think it was important,” Stanley said lowly. “ _I_ didn’t need to know.” He sighed, and pressed his knuckles against his forehead, silent for a moment. Stanford watched him, tucking his hands into his pockets, awkwardly. Before, when they were younger, Stanley would’ve shouted at him.  

“I thought,” Stanley said, “I thought he was like – some creep that started bugging you, you know, trying to trick you or use you.”

“He _was_ ,” Stanford said, heatedly.

“You two were friends first!” Stanley snapped. “Ford – “ he stopped, expression exasperated. “If you two had some kind of a relationship and he’s now traveling with us – well, give me a _heads up_.”

“We don’t have a relationship,” Stanford said, suddenly very cold, his voice flat. “There’s nothing left –“

“You should tell that to Bill,” Stanley said dryly. “Most of the time when you pass out, it’s just – Sixer this, Sixer that. I mean, he mocks ya – he makes fun of you a lot, but he makes fun of everything. But I think you’ve left an impression.”

“What,” said Stanford, intelligibly, some mad part of his brain going _ask if he likes you!_ and then he tried again, “Stanley, Bill Cipher is incapable of actually caring about us. Or anything besides himself.”

“He seemed to really care about ice cream,” Stanley said thoughtfully. “Especially with ketchup, which, you know, to each their own, I guess. But gross.”

“No!” Stanford snapped, and then flushed for raising his voice. “I mean – it’s not the same thing. He finds things interesting sometimes. But to him, we’re basically like – cockroaches. Cockroaches that he occasionally deems worthy of his time. Don’t get sucked into his charm.” He paused, hesitating, before he added – feeling a little childish – “Stop – being so friendly with him.”

Stanley stared at him. “What? Who said anything about friendly?”

“You were playing road games with him _today_!” Stanford said, a little desperately.

“Yeah – well, I was bored. We were bored. Sheesh, I’m not – I don’t _like_ him, Ford. He messed you up, what do you think I – “ he stared at Stanford’s face intently. “You think I’d pick him over you?”

Suddenly the conversation had found a whole new dimension that Stanford had not anticipated. This seemed to be happening more and more lately. He wondered, dimly, if he was actually in some hellish prison bubble and Bill was forcing him to discuss feelings on a daily basis.

“I was just,” Stanford said, swallowing, his throat feeling dry. “I’ve been observing you two, together, and I thought it prudent to –“

“Look,” Stanley said, aggressively. “I get that you don’t want to – have anything to do with me anymore, but I’m sticking with ya on this trip to make sure you actually _get_ to that ninety-two and the heart-attack. And if that means hanging out with the biggest jerk in the universe, so be it! I would’ve thought you _wanted_ me to be civil! You think I wasn’t itching to punch that smug face, with the way he talked to you?”

Stanford had not thought of that. From what he’d seen, Stanley had – had actual good time with Bill. Better than he’d had with Stanford. He opened his mouth to say – something, he wasn’t yet sure what, which was unusual for him, but Stanley beat him to the punch.

“Get some proper sleep tonight,” he said, curtly. “Quit falling asleep in the backseat. And if you don’t want me to talk to him, _you_ talk to him. He’s gonna keep yapping either way.”  He turned, abruptly, slammed the car door shut and walked off, to their room.

Stanford stood on the parking lot, trying to remember whether Stanley used to storm away from him before. He didn’t think so – Stanley had always, always been too careful to make sure Stanford followed.

He took a one last glance up at the sky, and then followed Stanley indoors. 

*

Stanford woke up, and he didn’t know why. The sky outside was still dark and the room had that still, quiet quality of sleeping in progress, the air settled and heavy. In the darkness, he could make out Stanley on the bed to his left, his glasses folded on the night-stand next to Stanford’s, snoring away softly.

Why was he awake?

Stanford rolled onto his back. The ceiling was rippling – no, there were lights, eerie, dim, that were trembling above him like – like what? He’d seen this somewhere before.

It was like an underwater cave.

A brief jolt of panic lurched into his throat when he realized he could smell salt water. Stanford sat up, sharply, still fully dressed, and reached under the bed for the gun he’d smuggled in with his coat, when he realized.

On the bed to his right, Bill Cipher was _asleep_.

They’d seen him pass out before a couple of times, sometimes even mid-sentence, (and one time, hilariously, when Bill was trying to eat – Stanford still spotted pieces of corn in his hair) when Bill’s body had apparently given up on trying to sustain its owner without rest, but somehow Stanford had assumed that the demon that fed on your dreams was somehow incapable of experiencing them himself. Was Bill truly dreaming right now?

Bill’s lips were moving – he was speaking, a continuous breathless mumble of words that made the hairs in the back of Stanford’s neck stand out, that made him hear children laughing somewhere in the distance, that made the air taste salty and fresh and his ears feel hot like the sun was coming down hard and taking no hostages.

They’d never worn sun-screen, no matter how many times their mother had warned them about that. When they were small, it had been a game of getting caught and being lathered with the sticky, sweet-smelling stuff – or not. By the end of each summer, Stanley and Stanford had usually been as brown as a nut.

Stanford turned to look at Stanley, who was still asleep, as if no amount of strange supernatural activities could budge him after he’d been driving all day. Stanley was peaceful – it was difficult to make out his expression, but Stanford thought he might have been smiling, even. Then he sat for a moment, listened to the echoing sounds of children of the past, and thought.

Could Bill dream? But Bill had never been a kid growing up on the shores of New Jersey – no, this was not Bill. Bill was asleep, but the dream he was having, so vividly that it leaked out of him and into reality –

\- was _Stanley’s_.

He considered waking up either of them, to test his theory – but it was _quiet_. The smell was nice, now that he knew they room wasn’t somehow filling up with saltwater. Bill was probably as silent as he could ever manage to be. If this was as worst it could get, the experience of dreaming meeting Bill Cipher – he could take it. He shuffled up against the headboard of the bed, stared at the lights dancing above him, and let his eyes fall shut on their own accord. For the first time in thirty years, Bill’s voice lulled him into sleep.

*

Stanford was ingesting motor oil.

At least he was fairly sure it was motor oil, heated up and masquerading as coffee, but oh, he knew, he knew what game it was playing. Sitting, crammed in the middle of the backseat so he could watch the road and the rising sun, he raised the paper cup to his lips and tried to brace himself, but he balked. It was too early for his stomach to experience this.

“Stanley, do you want my coffee?” he asked, his voice raspy from sleep, trying not to sound too piteous. Stanley barked out a laugh.

“That stuff? Why do you think I just bought a Coke from the wending machine?”

Stanley had acted completely normal ever since they woke up – gruff, jovial, easily amused, sort of like he acted around the kids. But Stanford couldn’t help but notice that Stanley hadn’t looked at him properly, like his gaze just skated past without pausing.

“Damn,” Stanford muttered. He was still holding the coffee awkwardly, and Stanley wasn’t meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror, and it seemed this was his life now.

He wasn’t sure if Bill had noticed, but the demon, perky from sleep, and apparently a morning person, had been mostly talking to Stanley and largely ignoring Stanford’s presence. He felt a little irritated by that – _Stanley_ he could understand, they had a complex relationship where either of them, or even both, would be angry at each other – but what reason would _Bill_ have for a cold shoulder? Was he still trying to gain Stanley’s favour?

Bill had finally managed to open his can of Fanta, which Stanford suspected had been chosen purely for the colour, and he was attempting to drink it – raising the can in an ever-rising arch above his head, tilting his head back and opening his mouth, and for some reason, his eyes as wide as possible.

“You’re going to spill it,” said Stanford.

“I’m drinking it!” Bill snapped. “No one likes a critic, Sixer!”

“You’re going to spill it,” Stanley said, sounding resigned. “Ford, help him.”

“It’ll go into my digestive system! My skin will absorb it! I’ll have its powers!”

“That’s not how any of it works,” Stanford said calmly, leaning over to tilt the can into a less hazardous position. “Don’t you have depth perception now?”

“It takes some _getting used to_!” Bill bristled, and suddenly shoved the can at Stanford, who caught it hastily in his free hand. Suddenly he was holding two drinks and Bill was glaring at him, his eyes wide like he wanted to see as much as possible of the object of his anger. It felt too early for this.

“What,” Stanford said, “what _now_?”

“I don’t want your help!” Bill snapped. “Or are you going to tell me to _leech_ that soda from the can?”

“Everything I said was _true_ ,” Stanford said, feeling incredulous. “You’re _proud_ of what you did to me! Yesterday you said you wanted “I tricked Stanford Pines” on a t-shirt!”

“Hey, it would’ve been an inside joke! I’m not sorry about it! But _you_ used to –“ he stopped, stared at Stanford for a moment – his face going through myriad of expressions with a constant undertone of wince, like he was experiencing some of them for the first time and he wasn’t particularly enjoying it. Abruptly he turned back on his seat, cramming himself as tightly against the window as possible.

“Bill?” Stanford asked, uncertainly. He tried to search for Stanley’s eyes in the mirror, and he found them, his brother’s wide-eyed expression matching his own.

He was sitting here with two open beverages now. This was ridiculous. Bill was acting – _ridiculous_ , and he had no idea why. And now he wasn’t answering Stanford.

They rode in awkward silence for a moment. Stanford really felt this was rather unfair. Bill had treated him abysmally and he didn’t deserve to be coddled, as if he had _feelings_. What had he been about to say anyway? That Stanford had used to be – what? Naïve? _Gullible_?

Stanley cleared his throat, awkwardly, and turned the radio on.

You talk to him, Stanley had said. Now look how that had turned out. Why did he _ever_ listen to Stanley on _anything_?

Bill was still ignoring him. When Stanford craned his neck, he could see him – somehow Bill had pulled his hair over his face, like a child, sulking, and it was unsettling, seeing someone he’d used to literally view as an omnipowerful, untouchable being act so – _human_.

Of course, what else could Bill do, like this?

“Do you want to try my coffee, Bill?” he asked, abruptly. “A lot of humans drink it, but it actually tastes terrible.”

Bill stirred a little, and then spoke, like he was reluctantly curious. “Why do they drink it, then?”

“Because it contains chemicals that makes us feel temporarily more alert,” Stanford said. He held out the cup invitingly. “This particular coffee is absolutely disgusting, but a lot of humans would drink it anyway.”

“Will it make me feel pain?”

“Well,” Stanford paused, feeling the cup. “Not really. It’s probably luke-warm by now.”

Bill hesitated. “Well, I _guess_ I could try it anyway.”

“That’s – that’s the spirit,” Stanford said. He almost smiled, but he thought better of it, as Bill turned around, because Bill was eyeing Stanford with some strange, tense wariness. It was as if they were _both_ awkward, in this together, mentally circling one another. It was probably the first time Bill had felt almost… _approachable_.

Now there was a thought.

Bill took the offered paper cup, sniffing it, before he tilted the cup – a little too high, but aiming for his mouth, this time, taking a sip.

He broke into a sudden grin. “This is _foul_. WOW. You people, I think I’m done with you and you _just pull me right back in_!” He took another sip, like a connoisseur sipping a vintage wine. “Do I detect a hint of baby blood?”

“No,” Stanford said hastily. “Absolutely –“ he paused. “Quite probably not.”

Bill squinted at his coffee thoughtfully. Then he said, in a quite a different kind of voice, calculative. “I accept this.”

“All right,” said Stanford, who was sort of relieved Bill had stopped acting like he cared what Stanford thought about him.

“You’re probably the first,” Stanley muttered. “I swear they continue that stuff with motor oil.”

“Hah,” Stanford said, huffing out a little laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“Ooh, can I drink _that_?” Bill asked, perking up a little.

Stanford met Stanley’s eyes and for a moment they engaged in a silent, furious conversation with their eyebrows.

“No,” Stanley said reluctantly. “No, better not – that stuff’s not actually good for human bodies.”

“Yesterday you said rocks weren’t good for human bodies,” Bill said, turning and squinting at Stanley. “I’m starting to think you’re just making these up, Ace!”

“No, I swear – look, _please_ stop eating gravel, Bill –“

Stanford looked down at the open can of soda, and then made a decision. “Bill, do you want to talk about –“ he hesitated – what did people usually talk about? How did you engage someone in a conversation without segueing it off from an argument? “About the weather?”

Bill turned to stare at him blankly. “The _weather_?”

Stanley was also staring at him, which Stanford thought was a little insulting.

“It’s sunny today, ‘s nice,” he said. “It’s.” He paused. “Well, it’s pretty warm for autumn. I think. Has it gotten warmer since the last time I was in this dimension?”

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to care about it,” Bill said slowly. “Not until you’re all about to face your fiery destruction in – never mind, no one loves spoilers. But why should we talk about – this particular _weather_?”

“It’s, it’s –“ Stanford gave up. “I don’t know.”

“You wanna talk about spontaneous combustion?” Bill grinned, sipping his coffee. “I happen to know what that’s _really_ all about! And boy, it’s a doozy.”

“What do you want in return?” Stanford asked, immediately, suspiciously.

Bill gestured vaguely. “If I tell ya, you owe me a favour.”

“A small favour,” Stanford said. “Nothing that involves setting you free or hurting another human being.”

“Deal,” Bill smirked, offering his hand, and then withdrawing it reluctantly when Stanford shook his head mutely.

“I thought we were supposed to be in the next town soon,” Stanley muttered, his eyes on the road. “Ford, will you check the map to –“

He stopped. They all stopped.

One minute they’d been driving through a forest route in early autumn, the sun lavishing the world with warm, yellow glow –

-and the next, they were driving into a small town that seemed to be suffering from the coldest winter in the century. Everything had that dim, blue hue of a sun hiding permanently behind the clouds. Even the houses seemed to be covered in white, heavy frost, like the inside of a malfunctioning freezer.

“Yeesh,” Stanley said, quietly, sounding stunned, slowly bringing the car to halt in the middle of the street. There were no people anywhere that they could see.

“This is new,” Stanford mumbled, trying to wrap his brain around this, his mind working in a feverish overdrive.

“Looks nice,” Bill observed. “I think I’m gonna try to eat that white stuff.”

Suddenly something let out a violent, crackling bang right beneath them, and then another– and the car lurched, starting to sink downwards.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The car lurched down a couple of inches, gently.

“What the –“ Stanley began, but Stanford, who’d suddenly shifted into the painfully familiar mode of survival, cut him off sharply.

“Everyone out of the car!” he snapped. “Now!” And to illustrate his point, he unlocked and kicked open his door, shuffling out, practically springing himself onto the snow, rolling onto his knees and back to his feet in a single, practiced movement, and then he turned around.

Stanley and Bill were still in the car.

Stanford made an incredulous, frustrated sound, yanking Stanley’s door open. “Get  _out_!”

Stanley was gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring ahead blankly. Next to him Bill was staring at Stanley’s profile, his expression fascinated, head cocked like a curious bird, like a man watching a car-crash. Stanford hesitated.

“Stanley?”

“It’s my car,” Stanley muttered. Something around them, below them, let out another creak, the sound echoing in the empty, eerie town like a warning shot and Stanford couldn’t  _believe_  they were just ignoring a potentially life-threatening situation. “It’s the  _Stanmobile_ , Ford.”

“Stanley,” Stanford swallowed. It was obvious they’d stopped at a nick of time – one more inch, and whatever the car was sinking into would have happened a lot faster. He stared at Stanley’s stupid, stubborn old man profile, and he wanted to snarl at him, he wanted to tell him, he’d had  _nothing_  on the other side, no resemblance of comfort or familiarity, forced to let go of everything to stay alive. The car was just a  _thing_.

“Ley,” he said, very very softly. “Get out of the car.  _Please_.”

Stanley stared at the notches on the wheel – god, Stanford couldn’t remember whether those were for girls or hot dogs – and then abruptly exhaled, turning to Stanford, unbuckling his seat-belt. “Right – yeah. Can’t leave  _you_  in charge of the twins, now can I?”

“I think Soos is in charge now,” Stanford said, immensely relieved, taking a careful step away from the car.

“That’s what Soos thinks – what the – why are you still in the car?” Stanley turned to Bill, exasperated, as if he hadn’t even noticed him before.

“I forgot how to untie myself!” Bill said brightly.

“C’mere, you dingus –“ Stanley muttered, and Stanford held his breath, listening, listening to anything that might be alarming, trying to be calm because the last thing the situation needed was for him to stomp in and forcibly yank his idiot brother and his idiot demon out of the car.

Nothing happened. They got out and the car stood there, strangely sunken in the heavy snow covering the street.

“Sheesh, couldn’t we have ended up in a magical  _tropical weather_  town?” Stanley muttered, stomping the ground a bit, a good distance from the car.

“This is most likely caused by the after-effects of the rift,” Stanford said grimly, looking around. “But what worries me are the people who live here. What’s happened to them?”

“Maybe they wised up and moved to next town over,” Stanley said under his breath, trying to peer at the windows. Even those seemed overtaken with frost. 

Bill let out a sudden, startled shriek, and Stanford wheeled around, already grabbing his gun, starting to feel unnecessarily jumpy, especially since Bill was simply staring at his arms in horror.

“My skin! It’s gone all bumpy! I swear I didn’t do anything this time, make it change back, Sixer!”

“Well,” Stanley said, raising his eyebrows at Stanford. “He  _is_  wearing a t-shirt, Ford.”

“So?” Stanford said, reluctantly, with a sudden sense of foreboding. “He picked it. It has glitter on it.”

“Rubbing the white stuff on isn’t helping!” Bill reported, sounding distressed. “On the plus side, I’ve lost all of that pesky sensation in my hands!”

“You gotta decide whether you want him to stay in that body or not,” Stanley said, lowly.

Stanford sighed. Then he shrugged off his trench coat, and tossed it to Bill. “Put this on. And  _stop_  touching the  _snow_ , for a nearly omniscient creature you have the survival instincts of a  _rock_.”

Bill glanced up, startled, catching the coat, and then flashed a knife-sharp grin at Stanford. “I think you made that face too much and it got stuck that way.”

Stanley huffed out a little laugh, and Stanford made the conscious, difficult effort to keep his expression as unchanged as possible, and just glared at Bill with his best icy stare, watching him struggle into his coat. The end result was something between sad and hilarious – Bill was considerably smaller, and somehow just came off as a child playing dress-up. The collar was too big too, following his movements, his hair gathering against it, and Stanford almost stepped in to fix it. Bill flapped the sleeves a bit, experimentally, and looked down at himself thoughtfully.

“Wow,” he said, “this thing is  _hideous_!”

“What,” Stanford said, genuinely taken aback and feeling oddly irritated. “What do you know about clothes? Two days ago you tried to wear _pillow-case_. Your true form only has a hat and bow-tie!”

Bill winked, ridiculously, tossing his hair back with his oversized sleeve. “That’s all ya need, Fordsie.”

“Do you even  _listen_  to yourself when you talk?” Stanford demanded.

“Not the words, no,” Bill said cheerfully. “Mostly I just like to admire the timber of my voice.” 

“ _You_  are –“ Stanford started, and Stanley cleared his throat, unnecessarily loudly, snapping him out of it.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Stanley said, his mouth a crooked tight line. “Just, you know. Spooky town, we can’t move the car, my unmentionables are going to freeze and fall off any minute now. Remember any of that?”

“Of course I do,” Stanford said, a different kind of irritation spiking up. “Let’s – “ he looked around. “Let’s go knock on a door.” There was a street, with houses surrounding it on both sides. It was actually quite idyllic, if you didn’t question it. Stanford pushed open the nearest gate, stepping into the path leading to the house, and Stanley followed close behind.

“Looks abandoned,” Stanley observed. “You want I should pick the lock if no one answers?”

“Maybe,” Stanford said, absently. There were flowers, real, expensive garden flowers under what might have been the kitchen window, but they were bent and frosted over, as if the cold had come all at once, suddenly.

“I don’t get what you guys are freaking out about!” Bill called out cheerfully, from behind them. “I’ve seen lots of stuff weirder than this! Isn’t this what’s  _supposed_  to happen anyway? Sheesh, is this more of that  _weather_ stuff?” He stomped the snow a bit, thoughtfully. “Hey, ya think anyone’s ever like – used this as a  _weapon_?”

Stanford turned, almost at the porch, because he knew Bill. “Don’t you  _dare_  –“

Bill was grinning at him – and then it happened again, something cracking, a loud, echoing snap – and suddenly Bill sank into a dark hole opening under his feet, like the ground had simply shattered away.

The hole splashed with  _water_  – and suddenly it clicked in Stanford’s mind and he felt like an invisible hand had squeezed around his windpipe.

“It’s  _ice_ ,” he gasped.

Bill’s head emerged abruptly, his arm lunging upwards to try to grab onto something, splashing wildly, weighted down by the sleeve, and Stanley rushed past Stanford with careless abandon, to grab it.

There was a hole in the ice in the middle of the front yard. Stanford was trying to recalibrate his whole thinking. Was the town built on top of a  _lake_?

“ _Ford_!” Stanley bellowed. He was struggling, kneeling down by the hole, grabbing Bill’s arms with both of his, but for some reason it looked like he was having a lot of trouble actually pulling him out. Stanford shook himself out of his shock, rushing over to his brother. Bill looked absolutely soaked, half-blind because his wet, heavy hair seemed to be getting all over his face, kicking the water and gasping – when Stanford grabbed him, the water numbed his fingers immediately. Bill sunk down, as if something was pulling him underwater, and Stanley and Stanford moved in perfect unison, sinking their feet into the snow while the ice crackled around them ominously,  _pulling_.

Bill emerged from the water finally, and with him, a ghostly, pale hand that was grasping his ankle in an iron tight grip.

“ _Hot_  Belgian waffles!” Stanley exclaimed, letting go of Bill abruptly, like he was too startled to even curse properly, and Stanford pulled, desperately, even when a white, blank face emerged, her lips blue and purple, frost like tiny diamonds in her eyelashes, and her eyes – her  _eyes_ –

Bill’s face twisted into an ugly, sneering grin as he turned, half on the snow and half in the water, pulling his free leg up and viciously _stomping_ on the girl’s face. Stanford didn’t even hear the crunch, but he  _saw_  something break, and he tried to force his gaze away but he couldn’t, every detail had been stamped into his brain – the grip on Bill’s leg was released, and suddenly Bill rocketed out of the water. Stanford slipped, Bill slamming against his chest, and they both fell back onto the snow.

“What in seven devils was that?!” Stanley exclaimed, half-shouting, hoarse. The water in the hole settled, smooth and ink black and deceivingly serene, and they stared at it in horrified anticipation.

Bill pulled himself upright, wide-eyed, shivering violently, involuntarily, dripping with freezing water. “Guess what, Sixer – I found your precious humans! They’re all down there!”

 

*

 

Stanford was freezing. His toes felt numb in his boots, and the cold seemed to have seeped into his bones during the time he spent on the snowbank.

It was nothing, however, compared to how Bill was doing. The wet clothes hung on him limply, and his hair was starting to freeze in heavy clumps, framing his face, his teeth chattering audibly, his lips an unhealthy shade of purple that just brought back the image of the girl in the lake, haunting in the edge of Stanford’s mental vision even though he pushed it aside firmly.

“We need to do _something_ ,” Stanley said lowly. They were standing as far away from the hole as possible, without leaving the car. “Those icy pops in the lake aside, he’s gonna turn into a decorative ice sculpture. Let’s grab some clothes from the car.”

“The car’s not safe, Ley,” Stanford said grimly.

“Hey, now _that’s_ interesting,” Bill observed, but he’d been making alarming observations about his body for the past five minutes, and Stanford ignored him.

“I’ll be careful!” Stanley snapped. “And then we can break into one of these houses and defrost him. Trust me, the longer we take, the harder it’ll be – that’s why I’m missing a toe.”

“You’re missing a -“ Stanford started, startled, but Stanley shut him down with a glare, and suddenly it clicked.

“I was young,” Stanley said, gruffly, turning to the car. And that was all the explanation that Stanford wanted, really.

The ice let out a now familiar, unpleasant crackle, and Stanley who’d been slinking towards the car carefully jumped back in alarm.

“Oh no, no no no –“ he groaned, as Stanmobile shifted, the backside sinking in first, in jerky motions as the ice finally broke down, and suddenly the whole car was submerged in water. “ _No_!”

They stood for a moment in silence, the dark waters bubbling gently, and then Bill spoke up – he was so cold that his voice was actually trembling.

“So, w- what about the smoke?”

Stanley turned to Bill, his expression despairing and irritated. “ _What_ smoke?”

Bill leered at Stanley, or at least tried to – he was trembling too badly for it – lifting his hand and pointing. “That smoke! Fire, right? Pretty sure you guys figured out _that_ particular puzzler a while back!”

Stanford followed Bill’s finger, and sure enough – it was the first normal sign of life they’d seen so far, a trail of smoke rising, not too far, behind a few houses.

“Better than nothing,” he said, and then added, because Stanley was lingering near the hole his car disappeared to, looking forlorn. “Stanley – we can’t just stay here.”

“Right,” Stanley grunted. “Hey short stuff, can you walk?”

“Of c- course,” Bill sniffed haughtily. “I learned last week, remember?” He took a determined, confident step, giving Stanley a triumphant look – and his knees promptly buckled. Stanley caught him easily, steadying him.

“Ford?” he said, brisk and business-like, and Stanford nodded, coming to Bill’s other side. Together they practically hoisted Bill up by his elbows, and began to make their hasty way towards the source of the smoke.

“Hey, isn’t it a lot darker than it’s supposed to be?” Bill commented dazedly between them as they navigated past the house. He was right. It looked like the sun was already setting, starting to go down behind the trees, and it should have been barely midday. Neither of the twins made a comment, but Stanford exchanged tense, unreadable looks with Stanley, who’d gone surprisingly quiet and efficient. Feeling more and more alert, brimming with adrenaline, they made their way past the last of the frozen houses, coming to the edge of the small town where the woods started again, and to the house with the smoke rising out of the chimney.

The house had been painted mint-green somewhere in the last decade, the paint chipping by now, the porch white and bare. But what was really noticeable was the fact that unlike all the other houses, this one had lights in the windows, and the walls remained free of frost.

As they pushed past the front gate, the door opened, and an old woman stepped out. She was bundled up tight, in a green coat and an ankle-length black skirt, heavy winter boots flashing underneath it – but more importantly, she was holding a shotgun, which she raised up expertly, not yet aiming, but the intent was clear, tucking it under her arm.

“Who’re you?” she said, curtly, without a preamble, sounding already hostile. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

“We were thinking of performing a little dance number,” Stanley piped up, sarcastically. “Ma’am, what does it look like? Some of us are about to croak from hypothermia!”

“What he means is –“ Stanford said hastily. “Could we come inside? Our friend fell through the ice, and he’s –“

“He fell through?” the woman interrupted, sharply, narrowing her eyes. “He’s not coming in this house, then.”

Stanford and Stanley exploded both at once.

“Now hold on – “

“Are you _kidding_ me –“

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” she demanded, raising her voice. “That’s what happened to the lot of them! That’s what’s gonna happen to him, any moment now! You fall through, and you fall asleep, and when you wake up – well, it’s not _you_ anymore. There’s no use to keep ‘em warm, no use to try to keep ‘em awake - Just leave your little friend in the snow, I’m sorry to say – no use bringing him in here.”

Bill made an intrigued sound, shivering between them. “Now _that’s_ interesting.”

“No offense, ma’am,” Stanley started, his voice tight with anger. “But you’re full of –“

“Sense,” Stanford piped in, hastily. “But – we can’t just leave him here. If he can’t come in –“ he paused, hesitating, and then continue firmly. “If he can’t come in, we’ll all just stay here.”

Stanley glanced at his brother, both eyebrows raising. “That’s right – that’s right. I mean, he couldn’t possibly part with – you know, and I’m his brother, so –“

The old woman frowned, nodding her head at Stanford and Bill. “Are you two -?”

“Oh, yes,” Stanford said hastily, moving to put his arm around Bill’s freezing shoulders.

“I am _brimming_ with all sorts of reproduction hormones!” Bill piped up helpfully.

“I find that arousing,” Stanford said, baring his teeth in what he hoped passed as a smile.

“Ew, tone it down a notch,” Stanley muttered under his breath.

The old woman considered them for a moment, her lips pursed in thought, eyeing them critically.

“He’s got a bit of a mid-life crisis, then?” she finally asked Stanley.

Stanley guffawed.

“Hey!” Stanford snapped. “My, my – _beau_ is freezing,” he ignored the incredulous look Stanley gave him, “I’d at least like to try and save him!”

“It’s useless,” she said. She looked pitying now, which somehow aggravated Stanford even more. “But – it is true he seems to be fighting it. So maybe you’ll have a chance to say goodbye, at least.” She paused, and stared at the gun in her hands for a long moment, silent, while they waited, lost in her thoughts. Then she turned, and walked back into the house abruptly, leaving the door open.

Stanley glanced at Stanford, making a face. “Just our luck,” he muttered under his breath. “Only one survivor, and she’s completely batty.”

“Let’s just thank our lucky stars she didn’t shoot you on the _spot_ , Ley,” Stanford snapped back, as they made their way up to the house.

“Here’s a fun question for you two geniuses,” Bill said abruptly, his voice hoarse. “Why’s _she_ the only one left?”

Both of them fell silent. Stanford had no answer, and he _hated_ not having an answer, especially to a question from Bill. Somewhere in the back of his mind, old stories, his mother’s stories, haunted him, the image of an old lady in the house in the woods… But they had no choice by now – so they stepped in, supporting Bill between them, where the old woman was waiting patiently, and shut the door with a quiet click.

 

*

 

The house was not what Stanford had expected when he’d first come in. First all, it sorely lacked strange herbs hung up from the ceiling, as well as cats, or bubbling cauldrons. It seemed like it was trying to make up for those with an enthusiastic amount of doilies and pastel colours, but it just wasn’t the same.

The old woman who’d introduced herself as Eileen had brought in dry blankets, but she seemed reluctant to be of much help – she’d let them sit by the fire and then disappeared into the kitchen, taking her shotgun with her, glowering at Stanley suspiciously as she went as if she was, and probably rightly so, suspecting he was going to walk off with the silver. But Stanford had bigger worries than any possible feuds Stanley might be starting with other geriatrics.

They’d plopped Bill down, and now Stanley had taken it upon himself to pull the clinging, cold, wet clothes off of the demon while Stanford hovered nearby uselessly, glancing between them and the kitchen door, trying not to think about the girl in the ice.

“No – your _other_ hand,” Stanley grunted. “How’re you managing to dress yourself, for crying out loud –“

“E- e- excuse me,” Bill’s teeth were chattering, despite the roaring fire. “I can’t tell which hand you’re talking about, Ace, because I _can’t feel either of them_!”

“Try to curl and uncurl your fingers,” Stanley muttered. “Nothing’s turned blue yet, ya baby.” He dropped Stanford’s soggy trench coat onto the floor, and attacked Bill’s t-shirt next, grabbing the hem to pull it up. Suddenly Stanford felt exceptionally uncomfortable watching his brother undressing the unholy tormentor from his past. He turned his back to the scene, and was left to stare at a rather bad watercolour painting of the forest. It was clearly some kind of an attempt at an idyllic shot – but there was a smudge at the bottom right, that he couldn’t quite make out. Stanford adjusted his glasses, leaning in to squint.

“Hey, pointdexter!” Stanley snapped abruptly. “Toss me one of those blankets, will you? You know, he’s sort of _your_ arch-nemesis, so I don’t know why _I’m_ the one doing this.”  

“Aw, Ace!” Bill said. “You can be my arch-nemesis _too_.”

Stanford turned around, and promptly closed his eyes. “I – you – he’s _naked_ , Ley.”

“Yeah,” Stanley sounded amused. “Boy, that college taught you everything, didn’t it?”

Stanford grabbed the blanket from the stack they’d been brought, handing it to Bill hastily, forcing down the embarrassment as he turned back around. The trick was just not to stare: he’d seen Bill naked before. Granted, he’d been more focused on the fact that he’d utterly triumphed over the demon and such things as _thighs_ had gone by the wayside, but he was a man of science, damnit. Human anatomy would not defeat him today.

“Jesus Christ, Ford, quit _ogling_ ,” Stanley said lowly. “Ya nerd.”

“I was looking to see whether he’s injured!” Stanford snapped. “He fought off of a – a – I’d rather he doesn’t die because of some pesky blood poisoning when we saved him from hypothermia!”

“I like not feeling parts of my body,” Bill said cheerfully, wrapped up in a blanket now. “It’s like I’m not in it at all!”

Stanley grunted, and then pushed himself up on his feet with some effort. “Okay. I’m gonna go see if that old bat’s got anything hot to drink. Then we can figure out what to do next.” He felt in his pocket, and looked satisfied. “Good, I’ve got the ol’ righty with me.”

“What’s that now?” Stanford asked distractedly.

“You’ll see,” Stanley grunted, and made his way to the kitchen. “Make sure he keeps warm!”

Stanford turned to look at Bill, and Bill looked up at him. He realized, abruptly, that he’d not spent a _single_ moment alone with Bill so far when Bill had been trapped in this body.

“So,” Bill said, after a pause, tugging at the blanket restlessly. “How about that spontaneous combustion, huh?”

“How’re your feet?” Stanford asked, curtly. “Still numb?” Bill blinked, and looked down at his legs, wriggling his toes thoughtfully.

“Sure, but –“

It was easier than anything else, so Stanford gave up on his pride and sat down onto the floor, taking one of Bill’s feet in his hands, pressing the warmest part of his palms against his toes. The texture of Bill’s feet was smooth, too smooth for a normal person of his age. He tried not to think of it in a context – he was simply making sure the body before him would return to some normal level of temperature, nothing else.

Bill, it seemed, did not share his sentiment. “Y’know, you look completely at home by my feet!”

“I could still toss you outside,” Stanford muttered. “Ley would never find out. I’d just tell him you ran away chasing a squirrel or something.”

Bill leaned back, grinning. “And waste all of that hard work, Sixer?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stanford muttered, bowing his head, so he wouldn’t have to look at Bill’s expression.

Bill was silent for a moment.

Then he kicked Stanford in the shoulder, abruptly.

“Ow!” Stanford snapped, lifting his eyes. “Bill –“

“Whaddya want from me, Stanford Pines?” Bill said, gazing down at him – unusually serious, his eyes strange and unblinking. “An apology? Would that make you feel better? Would you _believe_ it?”

Stanford opened his mouth, and then closed it, thinking his response again.

“No,” he said gruffly. “You wouldn’t mean it. You’re not sorry.”

“And you’re not a duck that solves crimes,” Bill said. “Because that’d be pretty near impossible for you, being a human and all. I don’t know what ‘sorry’ _means_ , Stanford. I just don’t. If I had a chance, well – I’d probably do it all again, only I’d _win_ this time!”

“Fine,” Stanford, said, curtly, looking down again, letting go of Bill’s foot. He felt foolish, all of a sudden, slow and stupid, a bumbling idiot falling into the same trap over and over again – and he was fairly sure Bill wasn’t even _trying_.

“Only,” Bill said. “This time, I’d _really_ want to keep you.” He was watching Stanford, when he looked at Bill, with a strange, hungry look, intently, like he was mapping Stanford’s reactions, like he was drinking in every emotion passing through his face, like he was _waiting_ for something.

Stanford swallowed. It was terrible. Bill was terrible, not-good, not human, who’d never understand, never comprehend the betrayal that Stanford had felt.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

“It’s no good,” Bill said. “I don’t get it, do I?” And he looked almost… disappointed.

“Why are we talking about this?” Stanford asked quietly. “What’s your angle, Bill?”

Bill flashed a little crooked grin. “I’m going to fall asleep, aren’t I? I wonder – I’ll probably be even more trapped in this collection of bones than I am already. It’d be a shame, wouldn’t it – if I hadn’t at least told ya _that_.”

“You’re not turning into a zombie, Bill!” Stanford snapped. “You’re a billions of years old being of infinite knowledge, that’s not how things _end_ for you! You’re warming up, Eileen said - ”

“I’m fighting it,” Bill said, grinning stiffly. “Real hard, Sixer.”

“Enough,” Stanford said coldly, standing up. “I realize you haven’t needed to try hard at _anything_ before, Bill, but – try and _keep awake_.”

Bill laughed, and Stanford stood up, turned away, scrubbing his face, taking a deep breath – because he’d spent thirty years painstakingly imagining murder scenarios but this was _wrong_ , this was all wrong, and Bill was never ever supposed to have talked about apologies…

“Keep awake,” Bill mumbled behind him, chuckling. “Hey, wasn’t that _your_ line, Fordsie…?”

There was a muffled thump of something hitting the floor.

The sun, Stanford saw just then, went down, shrouding the world on the other side of the window in deep blue darkness. He wheeled around.

Bill had fallen almost exactly where Stanford had sat mere moments ago, the blanket tangled around him – fast asleep.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the nice feedback! Seriously. I'm framing it and putting it on my fridge door. This is my first venture into writing something this long and plot-driven, and it's really nice to know that someone likes it!

“LEY!”

Someone was shouting. Stanford realized, distantly as the blood pounded in his ears, that it was _him_. He was on the floor, dragging unconscious Bill into an upwards position, not caring about the slipping blanket, shaking him, calling his name like a summons to appear. As Stanley burst out of the kitchen, wearing knuckledusters, Stanford was staring at Bill’s closed eyes, his peaceful expression with panic that seemed to explode out of his chest, his mind going wild with suggestions to proceed.

“Ford –“

Hearing his name shook him into action – before he could think, rage surged from somewhere within and he backhanded Bill, unnecessarily hard: it was the first time he’d _really_ struck Bill, despite all of his fantasies regarding the topic. It was, on the whole, unsatisfying like this.

“ _Wake up_!” he snarled. “You waste of time, waste of my life, waste of _everything_ – wake up!” Bill snoozed, still cold to the touch but undisturbed, his head hanging limp as if to mock Stanford, like he was once again existing simply to make his life difficult. He slapped Bill again, both cheeks this time, tapped his face, curled his fingers in his hair, balling his hand into a fist and _pulled_ –

“Ford!” Stanley leaned over his shoulder, abruptly, and grabbed his wrist. “Holy mackerel, you _need_ to calm down – that’s not gonna work!”

“What do you know?” Stanford snapped. “He could be faking it! This could be just another ploy, maybe to gain his freedom, or –“

“Or he fell asleep like she said he would!” Stanley said, sounding desperate.

“ _You don’t know the lengths Bill can go_!” Stanford snarled. “You’ve never experienced him like I have, Stanley – this is just the kind of manipulative, underhanded – “

“A funny relationship you got there,” Eileen commented dryly, trailing after Stanley from the kitchen. She was calm – when Stanford turned to look at her, he found her eyeing Bill with a complete lack of surprise, and Stanford _hated_ it.  

“What’s going to happen next?” he demanded, before Stanley would start blathering on about a lovers’ tiff. “You said something about them waking up – what – is he going to be like those _things_ in the lake?”

Eileen wrinkled her nose. Then she sighed, rubbing her knuckles.

“There’s no lake around here,” she said, evenly.

“I think you should start talking, lady,” Stanley said lowly, still standing next to Stanford – he could feel Stanley’s leg pressed against his back, as if he was trying to steady him, even after Stanford had shouted at him. He supposed Stanley of all people knew about lost tempers.  

Stanford turned to look at Bill again, and then made a decision, gathering the blanket around him for modesty, before moving to get up – lifting Bill from the floor, with a grunt, and moving him to a couch covered in lacey throw-pillows. Lying there, Bill looked almost halfway bearable, which was mostly due to the fact he wasn’t talking.

Stanford didn’t like that.

He pushed couple of the pillows on the floor, out of spite, before he turned to Eileen.

“I need a pen and a piece of paper,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible, trying for calm. “And then, you are going to tell me _everything_ , starting from when all of this first began.”

 

*

 

“Sixer, he’s not exactly going to run away,” Stanley muttered.

He was overreacting, of course. Stanley, that is, not him. Stanford was just leaning against the couch because it was convenient, not because he was, god forbid, _fawning_ over Bill. Eileen and Stanley had both taken a seat. She’d actually offered coffee, all of a sudden, probably to derail them, but Stanford would have none of it – this irritant had gone long enough. Too far, actually. He was going to get to the bottom of it and fix it, and Bill would be back to picking up radio stations with just static in them in no time.

And one day he might be able to be rid of him for good, he added to himself. Just, not like this.  This way was _stupid_.

“First,” he started, curtly. “How did it start?”

Eileen sucked in a deep breath, and then she seemed to opt for getting this over with. “With snow,” she said calmly. “Lots and lots of it. It wasn’t exactly in season… but at first, we just figured – well, these things _happen_. It was a mild annoyance. We thought it’d just melt away.”

“And it didn’t?” Stanford asked, writing it down in his short-hand as he studied Eileen. She was a severe-looking woman – possibly around their age, her hair short and grey, small but stocky, with gold-rimmed glasses that somewhat ruined her no-nonsense air. She was just like her house – in changing drastically between the first and second glance.

“Yes, it went away and we all had a lovely picnic,” she said, smiling at Stanford unpleasantly.

“I’m just trying to be precise,” Stanford said coolly, picking his words with cold clarity, inwardly reminding himself that it was poor manners to shake old ladies like maracas. “Our companion has fallen… for whatever is plaguing this town. I need to know every detail to work out what’s going on. Did something strange happen before the snow?”

Eileen stared at the fire roaring in the fireplace, blankly. “No,” she said, curtly.

Stanley shifted, and then sat up straighter, staring at her like he was smelling blood – but Stanford ignored him, pushing on.

“And the ice – where did that come from? How did it change the people in this town?”

“Suddenly people started falling through,” Eileen said, colourlessly. “Didn’t happen inside the houses, but anywhere you went, outside – what used to be solid ground was suddenly – ice. We had no idea how deep the water went, either. And when you fell in, even if you were fished out – “ her jaw tightened, and she pressed her lips together for a moment, staring at Stanford, hard.  “No matter how warm we kept them, no matter what we did – they’d fall asleep and wake up as that thing, that – that wasn’t a human anymore.”

“So kinda like zombies, huh?” Stanley grunted. “Aw, jeez – well, at least there’s three of us. Ya got any karaoke equipment, lady?”

“Did you get into my brandy?” Eileen demanded.

Stanford shifted his gaze on the limp figure on the couch. Would Bill still be himself, locked inside a body that had stopped following his orders? It was hard to imagine that Bill could just be… gone. It seemed impossible. But then again, sealing something as powerful as Bill into a meager human body had seemed impossible as well.

“Did anyone try to get help?” he asked, absently, distantly. “Did anyone try anything – to fix it somehow?”

“Some people left, but we never heard from ‘em. I reckon they fell through the ice too.” Eileen paused, her voice low when she spoke next. “We didn’t – really know what to do. We just tried to survive. But one by one –“

“Then how come _you’re_ still here?” Stanley butted in, aggressively, sticking his pinky finger into his ear and wriggling it around. “What makes _you_ so special, huh? Lady, give it to me straight - are you some kind of a witch or something?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Eileen said, turning very pale.

“Stanley,” Stanford started, warningly.

“Ya heard me,” Stanley said, baring his teeth. “Is this popsicle town your fault? Let’s not beat around the bush here, I mean, you _are_ pretty damn suspicious –“

“ _Me_?” Eileen snapped – she’d gone from pale to flushed and indignant, standing up.

“Yeah, you!” Stanley pressed on, with callous hostility. “Is it a yes or no? We _literally_ don’t got all night, lady!”

“I tried to help them!” Eileen burst out suddenly. “I didn’t want to go out there – _that’s_ why I’m still here –“ she paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath, staring at Stanley in incredulous anger. “You think I – _my_ poor Maura – was the last one to go – and I held her hand, _all night_ , I held it and I - “ her voice cracked – Stanford was suddenly immensely uncomfortable seeing her eyes glisten with unshed, furious tears. “I thought, if _I_ kept her warm enough, if I tried _harder_ than the others – “

Stanley suddenly went quiet, his brows furrowed, staring at the fire awkwardly.

“I tried to save her!” Eileen snapped in the tense silence. “You think I did this? I told her not to go outside! I thought, if we held on, something would happen, it’d stop – but she wanted to go, she wanted to get help – and now she’s out there, my Maura – “ she stopped, panting, swallowing, her voice cracking. “ _Not_ – my Maura anymore, her eyes – her _eyes_ were – “

“What –“ Stanley said, quietly, gruffly. “Maura – was she your – daughter? Grandkid?”

Eileen gave Stanley an absolutely icy look. “We never had children,” she said. “Although we wanted them.”

“Oh,” Stanley said. “Sorry about that,” he added, after a pause, unconvincingly.

“Excuse me,” Eileen said. She turned, walking to the door – Stanford had seen it open once before, leading upstairs. “I need to go take my medicine.”

Stanley fell silent. Stanford stared at him, as the door opened and shut after Eileen.

“Was that really –“ he started, just as Stanley spoke up.

“She was lying,” he said. Stanford opened his mouth to disagree – mostly what he’d witnessed there was Stanley stumbling into a social situation like a drunken giraffe, as per usual – but then he paused to consider.

He hadn’t trusted anyone in Gravity Falls. Why should he start now?

“What makes you say so?” he asked, instead of his instinctive derision.

“When she said nothing out of the ordinary happened before the – snow,” Stanley said, tapping the side of his nose knowingly. “She lied, Sixer. That was a lie. Trust me, I’ve been lying my whole life – she’s got herself half-convinced otherwise, but not _quite_.”

“What about the – “ Stanford gestured. Stanley looked awkward, and then regretful.

“Yeah, I think she might’ve told the truth there,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sheesh. Talk about an elbow in my mouth, am I right?”

As if prompted, they both glanced at Bill’s unconscious figure.

“Hey, bro,” Stanley said lowly. “What exactly is going on here?”

Stanford blinked. “I thought that’s what we’re trying to figure out?”

“Not with the battalion of Frosty the Snowmen out there – “ Stanley jerked his thumb at the window. “I mean, with – _this_. You were panicking when I came in. Kinda funny, all things considered.”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Stanford said stiffly, his mouth feeling dry. “I was – _startled_. Stanley, I don’t know what you’re implying, but – “

“Oh, Mr. Smart Guy doesn’t know something?” Stanley sneered. “Sorry, but I don’t buy that. Ford – “  

“Stanley,” Stanford interrupted, staring blankly at the notepad in his hands. “This is neither the time nor the place for a conversation like this. If she was indeed lying – “

Stanley stared at him. “Ford, if you care about him, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Don’t be disgusting!” Stanford snapped. The word “care” made his stomach twist in horror. “He’s not _human_! I’m not insane, Stanley – it would be _pointless_ , completely pointless to –“  

“Jesus,” Stanley took a step back, lifting up his hands placatingly. “Okay – settle down, tough guy, it’s fine. You don’t feel anything, you’re a machine, I get it – I was just trying to say – “

“I don’t want him to end up like that!”

“I gotcha,” Stanley said, lowering his voice. “I got it. I mean, personally, I’m on the fence, but – “

“You’re –“ Stanford stared at Stanley, incredulous, and then pointed an accusing finger at him. “You taught him road-trip games! Are you _serious_ , Ley?”

“ _Okay_ ,” Stanley said, wincing guiltily. “ _Fine_ , ya got me, the little twerp’s been… _growing_ on me. Are you happy, Ford? We’re both on a mission to save this jerk.” He paused, looking rueful. “I guess you decided you wanted him alive then, huh?”  

For some reason, that _did_ calm him down. Stanford took a deep breath, and then another, feeling, in some bizarre way, like tension he hadn’t even noticed eased in his chest. Eileen had mentioned the morning after – that indicated that they probably, _hopefully_ , had until the sunrise. 

There had to be some reason that all of this had started in the first place.

“We’ll search for clues,” he said. “Bill was right in the first place. It’s odd that she’s the only one faring so well out here. There has to be a reason, whether she knows it or not.” He looked around, glancing down at Bill. That said, he felt loathe to leave the room. What if Bill woke up? What if _something_ woke up? And all he had to go with was some half-assed detective work…

“You start with this room, then,” Stanley said, interrupting his thoughts, heading to the kitchen door.

“And you’re taking the kitchen?”  

“Sure,” Stanley grunted. “And while I’m at it, I’m gonna sniff out that brandy she was talking about.”

 

*

 

Eileen had a lot of books about birds. Some hard candies Stanford could recall from _his_ childhood – more doilies, a biscuit tin full of buttons, and a lot of mediocre watercolour paintings.

Some photos, too. They were in silver-frames, strangers, some solemn and some cheerful, staring at Stanford as if accusing him of stepping into someone else’s world. Stanford wondered which one of the women in the photos was Maura. He spotted Eileen, younger and happier, an actual smile playing on her lips, standing in a room Stanford didn’t recognize but which looked like a part of the house, decorated like a child’s playroom. Maybe Eileen or Maura had grown up in the house.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. It could have been a rift, not that he had equipment for detecting one, or it could have been _anything_. A curse, a virus, a parallel universe, an alien experimentation, or, god forbid, one of Bill’s own schemes gone awry. His brain was supplying ideas in a frustratingly fast pace while he tried to sort them out. How was he supposed to stumble ahead blindly with no guiding basis? He needed a hypothesis.

Stanford rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring at Bill. Sudden snow and the transformation of the town fit mostly, although not quite, most of the curses he’d read about. If Maura had been the last one to succumb to it, it meant quite possibly that Eileen’s house had been the most protected of the bunch. It meant that there could be something, an object, a presence, in the house that Eileen had not noticed.

Something was bothering Stanford, an itch in the back of his head that wouldn’t leave him alone. He stared, hard, at Bill’s features without actually seeing them, until it suddenly clicked.

Bill wasn’t talking in his sleep.

Stanford turned to look away hastily, and his eyes fell on the painting he’d been looking at earlier. There were the flowers and the trees. There was the smudge in one corner. No, not a smudge – Stanford squinted, stepping closer this time – a circle of some sort. Painted with muddy brown colours, it didn’t look more than a strange mistake.

“Maura painted those.”

Stanford spun around, to face Eileen who’d somehow snuck back into the room while his attention was elsewhere, his heart pounding in his chest. She looked calmer now, like she’d had a moment to settle down by herself.

“Indeed?” he croaked. “She was – very good.”

“Oh, she never thought they were any good,” Eileen waved her hand. “But she loved painting sceneries around the town. That one’s behind the old church, actually – we started building a new one, but it’s still standing.” Her expression changed. “I think. It’s been a while. A couple of years.”

“I’ve been alone and isolated,” Stanford said, after a pause. “How have you been able to feed yourself?”

“Rations,” Eileen said, immediately. “And I – put traps on the roof. That sort of thing. I have an abundance of water, of course – I just melt the snow.”

Stanford turned to look at the painting again, mulling that over in his head, keeping his face carefully blank. “We were thinking of searching the house – I think there could be some kind of a clue as to how this all began. I hope you don’t mind, Eileen.”

“You can look all you want down here, but I’d rather you stayed away from upstairs,” Eileen said. Stanford frowned.

“No offense, but this isn’t really the kind of situation where privacy trumps all – “

“Fine,” Eileen said, curtly, abruptly, as if she saw a battle she couldn’t win. “Let me just clean up first. I haven’t had guests in a while, everything’s – everything’s a bit of a mess up there. In the meanwhile, take a look down here – for what it’ll do for you.” She looked down at sleeping Bill Cipher. “And he needs to go outside. As soon as you can let him go. Trust me, you don’t want him in here – “

“Trust me, I’ve been tempted to kick him to the curb more than once,” Stanford interrupted, coolly. “But while we still have time, I’d rather not _kill_ him by sticking him outside in this weather.”

Eileen looked at him, again with that infuriating, knowing pity, as if she knew anything, as if she _understood_.

“You’ll still have that brother of yours,” she said. “You’ll still have someone.”

“I don’t actually– “ Stanford started: but was interrupted, by a loud, metallic clatter in the kitchen, followed by something shattering. Eileen let out an indignant, irritated sound and started towards the door before it was even finished.

“Everything’s fine!” Stanley called out uselessly. “I found glue!”

“You – is that _my_ bottle of scotch?!”

“Lady, relax! Look, just get me a brush and some towels and I can guarantee at least half of it back – “

Stanford stared at the kitchen door, shut after her. Then he looked down at Bill, who slumbered on in that unnatural, still sleep. He leaned down, tucking a few of the pillows a bit uselessly around Bill, hesitated, and considered. Then he turned, and made his way to the stairs leading upstairs. Something was off in that woman.

For one, she was _way_ too sane to have spent years alone fighting to survive. If anyone would know, it was Stanford.

He shut the door after himself, gingerly, left alone all of a sudden, in a cold, dark hallway. The sounds of Stanley and Eileen arguing were cut off, as if muffled by some force field, and in the silence, he could hear the wind howling outside.  Warily, he made his way upstairs. It was cold – much colder than it had been in the fire-warmed rooms they’d been occupying, and he felt a draft, discovering, to his incredulous surprise, that the window at the end of the short corridor was wide open, the curtains twitching in the wind.

Stanford walked up to it, peering outside. The town looked beautiful in the darkness, the snow reflecting whatever light there was left, but in the distance, in the shadows of the houses, he thought he could see people, shuffling around. He felt a bit sick: he closed the window.

There was a square of light reflected on the snow below. He stared at it for a moment, blankly.

There were no rooms downstairs in this side of the house that had been lit up. He’d walked past them, on his way up.

With a start, a sensation of a cold hand gripping his heart, Stanford realized that the reflection came from a window next to him, from the next room – and there was a door.

Eileen must have left the light on, when she’d come back downstairs. That’s all. Stanford stared at the door. His coat was downstairs, still in a soggy lump on the floor with Bill’s clothes, and his gun was there too, unless it had slipped out when Bill had fallen through the ice. Either way, he was unarmed.

With his nerves pulled as taut as violin strings, Stanford imagined he heard a sound in the other room, the tiniest sound, like just a barely noticeable absence of total silence.

 _Well_ , he thought in his head, in a voice distinctly reminiscent of Bill’s, _were you thinking of just standing here like the world’s ugliest hat rack?_

Stanford took a deep breath, pressing himself against the doorframe as he opened the door.

Stanford had seen more strange, disturbing and horrifying things in his life than most people outside those with massive substance abuse problems. Nothing of the experience of thirty years of monsters and survival, however, could have prepared him for the _crib_.

The room was lit with candles, and so warm that his glasses fogged up all of a sudden, blinding him, leaving him with the distinct impression of an old-fashioned nursery, before he had to snatch his glasses off and dry them, his heart practically in his throat as he waited for something to happen. Nothing did.  

Praying fervently for something living and human-shaped, Stanford stepped into the room, very gingerly approaching the crib, until he could, just about, peer into it.

A beautiful, glowing, _healthy_ baby met his gaze, and cooed softly. Stanford let his shoulders sag with relief, although he tried to remember he wasn’t out of the woods yet, stepping closer.

“Hello there,” he breathed out, softly. “You are _so_ much better than what I expected.”

The baby looked at him – and suddenly, _something_ looked at Stanford, but it definitely wasn’t a human child, through her eyes – and smiled.  His skin prickled. It was the diner incident all over again.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s more like it.”

“You weren’t supposed to come up here,” Eileen said, behind him. Stanford wheeled around, his back pressed against the edge of the crib. She stood at the doorway, her expression unreadable, her hands balled into fists – but she wasn’t carrying the shotgun, he noted.

“I thought you and Maura didn’t have any children,” Stanford said, to say something.

“We didn’t,” Eileen said – and her enigmatic expression melted away, making way for a flash of pain. “But we wanted children, so _badly_.”

“Then what – the baby popped out of a pea-stalk?” Stanford asked lowly. “Did someone leave her for you?”

Eileen stepped into the room, her gaze slipping past Stanford like he wasn’t there, falling on the baby, her eyes distant, her voice soft. “I found her. Someone had just _left_ her, in the woods, in the wild – inside a circle of stones, as if it _helped_. How could they? I _saved_ her.”

“Before all of this started,” Stanford said lowly. It was pathetically simple – pathetically obvious, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Eileen understood, if she’d known, and still kept the child. “Right before it started.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Eileen said, quietly, like she’d said it before, many times. Something else occurred to Stanford.

“Maura tried to, didn’t she?” he asked, watching Eileen’s face. “She tried to take the baby back. She’d been safe, until then.”

“Don’t you start too,” Eileen said dangerously. “Don’t you start blaming me too. I told you – I _tried_ , I tried to help her, I tried harder than anyone –“  

“Not enough to put the baby back where you found her!” Stanford snapped. “You – you’ve just sat here, watching the whole town be destroyed, for this _thing_ –“

“My _daughter_!” Eileen snarled, her voice cracking.

“ _She’s not human_!” Stanford shouted back, the last remnants of his patience crumbling. “She doesn’t _care_ about you! Is she even growing? She’s, she’s a pretty little _shell_ for something that will never love you, Eileen, that _can’t_ love you –“

“That’s not the point, Sixer,” Stanley said, cutting in, standing in the doorway. “Sorry – she slipped up here pretty fast. Her knees are in better shape than mine are.” Stanford turned to his brother, whose expression was calm, as if he encountered insane women on a regular basis – although, this was Stanley, so he probably did.

“What do you mean, not the point?” he asked instead, trying to stop his teeth from grinding together. “I think her hiding a literal _changeling_  - or whatever this baby is, causing all this mess - up here is pretty much the whole point of this – horrendous adventure.”

“Not that,” Stanley grunted. “I mean – she doesn’t keep that kid around to love _her_.” He stepped into the room, and peered at the baby. Then he pulled a silly face, sticking his tongue out. The baby giggled, and his mouth curled, ruefully, in response. “Anyway – when you love someone, or _something_ , you just love ‘em. That’s not – you don’t decide you’re only gonna care about those who can or will care about ya too.” He glanced up, giving Stanford look he didn’t comprehend. “You _can’t_ really make that decision. I mean, it sucks, but hey – life, am I right?”

“She’s my daughter,” Eileen repeated, hoarsely, as if to drive some point home, staring at Stanford, defiantly.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stanford bit out, venomously. “What about everyone else? Are _they_ not worth saving?”

“Oh, no, they are,” Stanley said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “We’re _definitely_ dropping this little tyke back where she came from.”

Eileen let out a distressed, enraged sound, pushing her way to the crib abruptly, trying to shoulder Stanley out of the way – Stanford curled his fingers around the leg of a table lamp, acting on pure instinct – and Stanley turned, taking a hold of her shoulders, pushing her back firmly.

“I was gonna say –“ he said, “you can love someone without being loved back.” He paused. “But it’s not much _fun_ when it’s all you got, is it?”

Eileen paused, her eyes wide, her expression so old for a moment – and Stanford brought the lamp down on her head with as much precision as he could muster.

“ _Really_?” Stanley asked, exasperated as he caught her, hastily dumping her onto the nearby armchair. “You just _had_ to do that? I was gonna talk her into giving it up!”

“We don’t have time for that, and you were never actually good at it,” Stanford grunted, tossing the lamp on the floor – with a brief jolt of guilt as he glanced at Eileen, already stirring. “The sun is going to rise soon. If this is our only chance –“

“Yeah, yeah,” Stanley muttered, walking back to the crib, leaning down – emerging carefully cradling the baby, wrapped up in her own blanket. “You just _always_ gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”

“ _Stanley_ ,” Stanford said sharply, already stalking towards the door.

“I’m coming! Are you good leaving Bill downstairs? Should we tie him up in case he wakes up and decides to maliciously raid the fridge or something?”

“We’re taking him with us,” Stanford said decisively, before he could stop himself. “I’ll carry him.”

Stanley sighed, his mouth quirking oddly. The baby in his arms giggled as he poked her cheek tenderly.

“Of course you will.”

 

*

 

The outside world had turned vividly blue, a strange husk of a morning approaching, completely silent, as if all sounds were muffled by the heavy layer of snow. Stanford shifted his grip on Bill, set against his back, while Stanley stood beside him, peering into the semi-darkness.

“I need new glasses,” Stanley muttered. “Think we should just make a run for it?”

“We’re looking for the church,” Stanford said softly. “There’s a stone circle somewhere behind it. Hopefully that’s the right one.”

“Right,” Stanley said, stretching his shoulders – he was carefully cradling the baby in one arm, holding her protectively against his chest, as if she was a real human. “And what if we put this thing back where it came from –“ he let out a guffaw, muttering “or so help me” under his breath.

“Yes?” Stanford prompted, a little irritated. It wasn’t easy missing over thirty years of pop culture references.

“Right, sorry –  what if we do that and nothing happens?”

“Then we think of something else,” Stanford said, as decisively as he could muster, not saying what was floating at the top of his mind: that if it came to it, he might have to –

The baby in Stanley’s arms cooed happily, and Stanford avoided looking at her. He was only being practical.

“Ready, Sixer?”

Stanford swallowed. He could feel Bill’s breath against his neck, if only barely – it was the only thing in him that still felt warm.

“Let’s go.”

They stepped down from the porch, their breath ghosting around them, both of them falling silent, listening to the tell-tale sounds of cracks or bangs as they walked.

They got to as far as out of the gate, when it began, a horrifying, gut-wrenching crackle under their feet. When Stanford looked down, he saw the whole road covered in hairline fractures, black, inky water leaking from the cracks.

“Run!” he snapped – and took off, without looking to see whether Stanley was following, trusting, knowing, blindly that he was, as the ice started to break underneath them. Somewhere in the distance he could see the bell-tower of the church, and that’s where he was aiming towards.

Around them, the landscape was transforming into a true nightmare – the houses they passed were cracking, water leaking from the walls, from the windows, as if reality itself was shattering, parts of the street giving into dark, splashing holes, white and stiff figures starting to crawl their way out, clawing the ice with mindless determination. Stanford could hear himself pant – could hear himself and Stanley pant in near-perfect unison, Bill weighing on his back like a mill-stone, he was too heavy, he was too heavy and running on thin ice –

He heard Stanley let out a startled yelp and he turned to look, barely slowing down – the baby giggled and Stanley kicked something, a hand emerging from the ice, away.

“Go!” Stanley snarled. “You waiting for an invitation? Go!” And Stanford did. While the ground turned wet and slippery, he could see figures shuffling in the corners of his vision, and he couldn’t stop, his whole focus on the old church coming up at the end of the street. He felt himself step into ice that gave away under his feet, sank down, and he made the mistake of glancing down at the faces, before he _jumped_ , ending, panting so hard that his chest hurt, that his throat felt like it was burning, onto the church grounds. The only way he knew Stanley was still following was the near continuous stream of child-friendly cursing coming right behind, and he kept running.

The circle – where was it? Had Maura even painted this place? Stanford stumbled past the church, where the woods started, looking around wildly, and he saw it, half-buried in the snow – a collection of rocks, set in a meaningful way. He tried to shout for Stanley to follow but he was breathing too hard, letting out a jumbled collection of sounds that Stanley seemed to translate, appearing to Stanford’s side, and they hurried, both of them stepping into the circle as if they’d synchronized it.

“Here you go, sweetie,” Stanley muttered, panting, coughing a little, as he crouched down in the snow, setting the baby down carefully. Stanford sank down, weighed forward by Bill’s body, already starting to catch his breath – the run itself had been nothing, the ice had just turned it into an obstacle course.

They paused, looking around expectantly. Nothing happened.

“Oh for –“ Stanley started. And the whole world blurred.

It was like watching a video fast-forwarded, only _nothing_ of the kind. Stanford had to avert his eyes after a moment, because he started to feel nauseous – the world around them seemed to change in rapid spins, seasons shifting, snow melting and appearing, leaves falling and appearing, except it was all somehow happening _at the same time,_ images blurring into one another, comprehensible and confusing simultaneously.

"Stanley," Stanford said hoarsely, as his vision swam. "Did you say all of that stuff about caring for someone without expectations - did you mean Bill and I?" 

Stanley was quiet for a moment. 

"Yeah, sure," he grunted. "That's what I meant." 

The world turned in a cacophony of images. 

And then it stopped.

The ground was wet, covered in brown leaves, and the air was crisp but not too cold – the perfect autumn weather that they’d left with yesterday morning.

Between them, the baby giggled softly.

“I’m too _old_ for this,” Stanley groaned, sinking down next to her, but he couldn’t help smiling as he looked down. “Ya little rascal. Who’s a weird season-controlling magic baby? You are!”

Stanford felt something stir against his back.

“That was weird,” Bill mumbled, emerging, flopping onto his side on the leaves with no regard for how many got stuck in his hair, alive, awake, slightly whiny. “Why are we all in a faerie circle? It’s making me itchy.”

Stanford sat, moistness seeping through his trousers. He felt strangely elated, a small, easy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe it was because he finally knew more about something than Bill. Maybe it was because they’d just single-handedly fixed a cursed town.

Maybe it was just a nice day, in the end.

He peered down at Bill, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, mouth curling. “We just saved your life – well, your body, at least. How’s that for owing _us_ a favour, huh?”

Bill squinted up at Stanford.

Then he smirked, slowly. “Ya got me there, Sixer.”

The sun came out from behind the clouds, and Stanford suddenly felt warm again.

 

*

 

When they finally walked back into the town, sans the baby that they left in the circle (despite Stanley’s fussing and protestations), they found it full of confused, chattering people.

It didn’t make it any easier to blend into the crowd when Bill was technically wearing only a blanket, and wasn’t too averse on flashing the poor townsfolk. Stanford wondered how they were going to get out – whether there was someone who could rent or sell them a car. He rather doubted it, considering most of them seemed bemused enough by what they had been doing the past few years, to resume business. At least no one seemed to be harbouring any exact memories.

He made eye-contact with a girl whose face was whole and living, freckled and brown, and he felt ill, and then relieved.

Next to him, Stanley let out an incredulous, entirely unbecoming high-pitched squeak.

“What –“ Stanford started, but Stanley was already rushing towards the Stanmobile, standing dented but otherwise unharmed in the middle of the street, and he understood.

“Wow, this sure is nice!” Bill exclaimed. Stanford stopped watching Stanley trying to enthusiastically either embrace or possibly get to a second base with a car to look at the demon wearing a blanket like a toga. Bill gave an experimental twirl. “I like this! Can I wear this from now on?”

“You’re going to wear actual people clothes,” Stanford said absently.

“Right, right,” Bill said knowingly. “I can do _that_. As a _favour_ for _you_ , big guy, no questions asked, just say the word!”

“That’s not how you’re getting out it.” Stanford paused. “What do you _mean_ , no questions asked? Why do you think people _wear_ clothes, Bill?”

Bill opened his mouth to answer, when a woman suddenly marched up to them. She looked to be in her early forties, with greying dark hair, and a small, wiry figure.

“ _Why_ are you wearing Eileen’s duvet cover?” she demanded.

Bill, blinked, taken aback, and then smirked. “You must be _Maura_.”

“Yes, I am,” Maura said, frowning. “Are you _naked_ under that? Has Eileen been having _gentlemen callers_?”

“ _No_ ,” Stanford said, with as much emphasis he could muster, stifling down the horror of “gentlemen callers”.

“Yes!” Bill said brightly, grinning like a lunatic. “And boy, did we _sweep her off her feet_!”

“Bill, please.”

“Why, she was practically _seeing stars_!”

“Give the nice lady her duvet cover back,” Stanford said, standing defeated in the heat of her glare. She snatched it off Bill, before the demon could even begin to untangle himself.

“I swear, if you jokers have _hurt her_ –“ she started, and then turned, bundling the cover in her arms as she marched away.

Stanford was now standing in the middle of street with about a dozen curious onlookers and a very naked Bill Cipher. Bill, to his part, gave a nearby confused policeman a wave and a wink.

He sighed, starting to shrug off his coat again. “When we get out of this town, we’re going clothes shopping,” he said. He paused.

“As soon as we can pry Stanley off the hood of the car,” he added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I have to confess. The fic summary is a lie. You have been lied to. I am a fraud. 
> 
> There are primarily three things Bill picks when he gets to the radio, and those are a.) stations that seem to be just ear-bleeding amounts of static b.) a station that's just a small child reading random numbers out loud and c.) the best of Queen in a continuous uninterrupted loop. My apologies. I realize some of you might feel disillusioned, but I hope you can keep on reading.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thank you so much for the nice comments! If I haven't responded, it means they were really nice and I got overwhelmed...  
> I think this chapter is the longest one so far. Sorry about the wait! Hopefully next one will come faster. By my count, I've got two more to go!

Stanford woke up before he’d even realized he’d fallen asleep. The car wasn’t humming and sun shone so brightly through the window that he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to sleep in the first place. The last thing he remembered was the three of them, driving back to the main road and Stanley steadfastly refusing to stop for any of the road-side attractions to look for clothes. Bill had said something about spiders in that sly, coy voice he used when he knew something and Stanley had almost driven them off the road.

Neither of them were anywhere to be seen. He was alone in the car.

Stanford squinted through the window – it looked like a parking lot, but everything was awfully blurry. When he touched his face, he realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

Muttering a curse, Stanford repeated the pattern he’d done since he was six years old, patting his clothes, and then pawing at the surrounding areas, finally wedging himself between the seats to pat the floor of the car irritably.

The driver’s side door clicked open.

“What’cha doing, Ford?” Stanley asked.

“Glasses,” Stanford muttered muffledly.

“Oh yeah, sorry about that,” Stanley said, and something hard tapped lightly against Stanford’s scalp. “We went to get those clothes and Bill took ‘em – I figured you were sleeping so you didn’t need them.”

Stanford snatched up his glasses, putting them on, finally feeling awake as he focused on Stanley and opened the car door. “What on earth is his fascination with my –“

Bill was wearing a summer dress. A  _canary yellow_  summer dress, with his hands on his hips, looking pretty proud of himself.

“It was on sale,” Stanley said, sounding surprisingly meek.

“You –“ Stanford started, and then tried again, as he rapidly re-constructed his thinking. “It- looks nice.”

The skirt was a triangle shape and the shade of yellow was a near perfect match, so of course it made sense. Of  _course_. Stanford had to admit, begrudgingly, that despite the fact that Bill had tried to wear an oven mitt, a lamp cover, and, somehow almost killing himself in the process, banana peels all over his body, when he got his hands on actual clothes, Bill had  _style_.

“I made a store clerk cry!” Bill announced proudly.

“Pimples had it coming,” Stanley grunted unrepentantly.

“I’m sure,” Stanford said, trying to keep his eyes fixed on eye-level. He was perfectly okay with Bill’s complete disregard for human gender norms, he really was - but he’d sort of hoped for something a little more covering this time around, like  _overalls_ , or a perhaps a fetching full-body cloak. Damn legs. Damn Walmart.

“Well, I’ve done enough Bill-sitting,” Stanley said, although he looked almost fond. “You watch him for a while. If you let ‘im eat stuff off the ground, take pictures, I can sell those-“

“What –“ Stanford started.

“The internet,” Stanley said, as if that explained everything, and then continued, “Anyway - I’m gonna go call the kids.” He turned, making his way across the lot towards the payphones.

Stanford blinked, feeling a brief stab of guilt when he realized he hadn’t even thought about the twins back in Gravity Falls since the day after they’d left. But Stanley had. He wondered if Stanley had been worrying, the whole time they’d been traveling. He’d come anyway…

“Hey,” Bill nudged his side, shaking him out of his thoughts. “He said ya should watch me, four-eyes! Keep your eyes peeled! Bask in my glory!” Having said that, the demon who’d terrorized mankind’s dreams longer than anyone could remember twirled around and giggled when his skirt flared out. Stanford hadn’t  _needed_  to know, but it was good of Stanley to have thought to buy Bill some underwear as well.

“It’s – nice,” said Stanford who figured he’d be in for angry screeching if he closed his eyes. “I’m basking, all right. Do you want to go sit in the car?”

“Why? Ace is not back yet!” Bill continued twirling in the parking lot. “Will ya  _relax_ , Sixer? We’ll figure out what the anomaly is! Y’know, you were always like that. Most of the time you gotta let the pieces fall into place before you rush in. That’s you always lost in chess.”

“What pieces?” Stanford asked, suspicious, and ignoring the blatant lie – he’d won four games out of fifty-seven. “Bill, how much do you know about this?”

“The future’s always uncertain,” Bill peered at Stanford from under his hair with one yellow eye, more like a bird than a human. “I mean,  _sure_ , I can catch glimpses, but most of the time things shift around too much. I just kinda bluff and know where to put my pieces. But didn’t ya notice?”

Stanford swallowed. It was probably the first time Bill had  _willingly_  admitted to not being omnipotent. “Notice what?”

“Sheesh – that ice town! It had been around a LOT longer than a couple of days. No way did my plan do  _that_!” 

“Oh,” Stanford said, rubbing his face. Of  _course_ , he would’ve realized it, if he’d paused to think about it, but the events had rushed in one after another in such a dizzying speed that he’d barely had time to catch his breath.

He suddenly felt a little grateful to have someone like Bill tagging along, despite their situation. But of course he would’ve figured it out.

“So it was something else. Potentially unrelated,” he said. “That’s – worrying.” He paused. He’d brought in equipment, yes, a couple of seriously outdated detectors he’d been tinkering with as they drove on, but he was sorely lacking in tools and materials. While Stanford had gotten used to suavely MacGyvering his way through the horrors of the Other Side, he doubted acorns, the Stanmobile and the moldy sandwiches Mabel had packed for them that they’d forgotten to eat would help him along.

“So, figure it out, smart guy,” Bill prompted. “Isn’t that what ya loved to do?”

“Aren’t you going to help?”

Bill laughed, sounding a little startled. “I’m better at breaking things than  _fixing_  them, Stanford! Thought that the whole business with the rift would’ve  _kinda_  clued you in. Besides, it’s not like I’m here  _voluntarily_.”

“But,” Stanford started, feeling stupid for forgetting, and for what he blurted out next. “We got you a dress.”

“I can take it off, if you want it back,” Bill said brightly.

Stanford felt that Bill was doing it on purpose at this point.

“What if we –“ he started, helplessly, ignoring the way his ears and the back of his neck flushed. “What if we make – sort of case-by-case deals? If you think of something, tell us, and we’ll negotiate you something to trade the information for.”

Bill eyed Stanford blankly for a moment, and he remembered, oh, he remembered, when Bill had been the one calling the shots. He thought he would’ve loved every second of ordering Bill around, but to be honest, watching Bill wriggle, complain and spew hateful things had gotten old quickly.

He’d liked the way Bill had smiled at him after the ice town debacle.

“Hmm,” Bill said, hands on his hips, cocking his head. “All right. It’s a deal, Sixer.”

Stanford moved instinctively, because Bill didn’t, offering his hand to shake. Bill blinked, his expression shifting from startled to tentatively hopeful, glancing up at Stanford, then at the hand, and then back to him.

“Well – what?” Stanford said, trying not to smile at Bill’s expression. “Aren’t you supposed to shake it?”

“Ha! Don’t get cute with me, Stanford Pines!” Bill said, but he laughed, taking Stanford’s hand with considerable enthusiasm, shaking it – and then he stepped closer, their hands suddenly trapped between their bodies, his head tilted up to peer at Stanford who could suddenly only focus on Bill’s dark lashes, framing entirely too brightly glowing eyes, and the sudden heat of another living, breathing body against his.

“W-  _what_  –“ he started eloquently, adrenaline and anxiety duking it out in his chest, and then Bill reached up and snatched his glasses, the whole world turning blurry.

“Ha  _ha_!” Bill said, dancing back, holding the glasses, presumably – all Stanford could see was a gloating yellow blur. “Look who’s the big-shot human  _now_! I’ve rendered you useless! Time to mock ya when you’re down!” He moved his hands, and when Stanford squinted, he could see that Bill had put the glasses on himself. “Oh, I’m Stanford Pines! I like paper! I tried to make my muse of infinite knowledge play  _Dungeons, Dungeons and more Dungeons_ with me!”

“That was  _one_  time,” Stanford said. He was, surprisingly, not panicking. Bill was wearing a summer dress and moving from foot to foot like he was trying to make the skirt swish as much as possible, and he had his head tilted to a ridiculous angle to try to peer at Stanford through his glasses (or possibly he thought he was imitating Stanford), and he wasn’t trying to murder or maim or destroy anyone. He could let the demon have this.

“It was only once because my muse laughed for  _so long_ that the morning came and I woke up! One time the cops came when I was trying to steal a triangle-shaped traffic sign and I pretended I was looking for my dog!”

“I’m going to put you down a well,” Stanford said.

“Good luck getting these glasses back!”

He really needed to get some kind of a string to keep Bill from yanking them off him – or at least to wake him up when that was happening. That’s what old people had on their reading glasses, didn’t they? Stanford might as well act his age. He’d had a friend, back in college, who’d always had one in theirs… 

A sudden thought, a memory, came to his mind so abruptly, bringing with it an idea that blossomed into full bloom, and he jerked, turned around and opened the car door to pull out their map. “Bill, give me back my glasses!”

Bill tutted. “I’m not done! There was once a man from New Jersey - ”

Stanford turned around, and reached, without bothering to try to squint and focus, because he knew where Bill was, and grabbed the front of his dress, dragging him in, snatching his glasses back. He had, for a second, time to see Bill’s startled expression up close: but his mind was too full of his idea to get caught up in the proximity, and he turned back to the map to examine it.

“I knew it,” he muttered. “Ha! Excellent!”

“Being pretty rude here, y’know,” Bill said, loudly, behind him, sounding strangely half-hearted. “Or did’ya forget I can’t read that noggin of yours like this?”

Stanford turned to Bill, unable to help the grin that spread on his face. Bill took an actual step back, but Stanford had no time for that, grabbing his wrist to pull him along.

“I need to make a phone call,” he said. “I’ll explain if the number still works.”

 

*

 

The number still worked.

Stanford had stood with the payphone clutched against his ear and his heart beating in his chest as he listened to the strangely rattling dial-tone – and then the familiar voice of his old college buddy James had answered, sounding exactly as he’d done about thirty years ago, halting, and then warming up considerably as the conversation went on: Stanford had felt young again.

“He was a complete supernatural geek,” he explained in the car, after he’d finished with his phone call. “I mean, I could say he was the one who recommended me half of the books that eventually led me to Gravity Falls. I doubt he could’ve ever even  _dreamed_  of the discoveries I made.” He paused, staring out of the window, still caught up in that bittersweet nostalgia. He’d thought he wouldn’t remember – he’d thought the details would have been glazed over by too many memories piled on top, but no, it was all there, like an old photograph with the dust blown off the edges, and he found himself suddenly  _giddy_. “He’s going to be floored – I don’t even know what to start with. Oh boy.”

“Okay, so he’s an old buddy of yours,” Stanley said, sounding strangely irritated. “What’s that got to do with the trip? I thought we didn’t have for – y’know,  _leisurely_  stuff.”

“I’m sorry I jostled you off the phone, Stanley,” Stanford said. “But were you  _really_  talking about anything important?”

“Mabel was about to order a bouncy castle combined with  _ball pit_!”

“That sounds like it saves a lot of money,” Stanford observed calmly.

“I wanna try it!” Bill piped up.

“No!” Stanley snapped, steering them rather too sharply out of the parking lot. “People who turn other people into stone don’t get bouncy pits!” He paused, looking cross-eyed at what he’d just let out of his mouth. Stanford decided that it was his brotherly duty to get the conversation back on track.

“As I was going to say,” he said, “James lives about two hours from here. And he, if anyone, is bound to have equipment that I’m missing. Why take the whole trip back to Gravity Falls when we can simply go see him?”

“And you can catch up with your  _old friend_ ,” Stanley muttered sourly.

“What’s gotten into you now?” Stanford demanded. “This isn’t a detour, Stanley! We’re doing this to  _stop_  wandering around aimlessly!” 

“Yeah, well – I can’t say wandering around aimlessly with ya has been all that bad!” Stanley snapped, halting the car at an intersection. “Been a  _long time_  since we’ve wandered around aimlessly, Ford!”

“Well – it hasn’t been all bad for me either!” Stanford snapped back, thinking back at that moment sitting in the sun. “Stop saying ‘wandering around aimlessly’ - wait – aren’t we agreeing?”

“Human relationships are so  _weird_ ,” Bill remarked from his seat, jovially.

Stanford exchanged looks with Stanley through the rear-view mirror, and they just stared at each other for a while, before the light turned green and Stanley had to keep driving.

“I guess it’d be good to get back soon,” Stanley muttered, begrudging and soft. “Before the kids pull a Bill and turn my- _your_  house into a party center.”

“Ooh, I could give ‘em  _tips_!”

“Not now, Bill.”

“I promise,” Stanford said, seeking Stanley’s eyes in the mirror again. “We won’t stay for long. We’ll go in, we’ll get what we need, I’ll exchange a couple of words with James, and we keep on going.”

Stanley flashed him a crooked smile. “Hey, don’t sweat it, bro. You can reminisce a  _little_. I can always use a break from the driving.”

Bill wriggled in his seat, and then turned so he could peer at Stanford over his shoulder. “So. This James person. Does he know about  _me_?”

Suddenly Stanford found himself busy studying the seat in front of him as the cold, cold grip of mortification and embarrassing memories washed over him. Fascinating, fascinating fake leather. Someone had scribbled  _“I hope you have a nice day!”_  on it with a marker.

“Hello? Sixer, don’t ignore me, you know it makes my aura itch!”

“He might,” Stanford said, keeping his voice level. “I don’t know. I forget.”

“Hey, Bill,” Stanley spoke up, easily, casually. “Did’ya check the bag I got from the store? There’s something in there for ya.” Bill perked up, his eyes lighting up and practically blinding Stanford for a moment before they settled to their usual strange glow, grinning from ear to ear.

“An offering?! Ya got me an offering!”

“A  _thing_ ,” Stanley said hastily. “Not even a present. It wasn’t expensive.” Bill dived into the bag crammed next to his feet on the passenger’s seat, for a moment involved in furious rustling. Stanley winked at Stanford in the mirror.

“Toothpaste!”

“No – put that away, don’t – actually, let’s save that for later, I can’t take pictures like this –“

“Seriously,” Stanford said, “ _where_  can you –“

“The internet, I toldya, Sixer – it’s a sort of long-ish shape, Bill, it’s got edges –“

Bill pulled out a block of something shaped like an elongated triangle, with the word TOBLERONE in heavy red lettering on the side. “Hey now, what’s this?”

“It’s chocolate,” Stanley said easily. “Pull off the wrapper first, genius, you’ll like it.” He paused. “I guess I just saw it and thought of you.”

Bill squinted at the chocolate bar, turning it in his hands. “I accept this,” he said, graciously.

“Still not an offering, buddy,” Stanley said firmly, eyes fixed on the road.

Stanford leaned against the back of Stanley’s seat, murmuring, voice low. “I think that’s just how he says thank you.” He could  _feel_  Stanley roll his eyes.

“Glad someone knows how to say it,” he muttered, in Stanford’s mind, quite unfairly.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he said, pointedly, even surprising himself. He wasn’t sure if it was for the impromptu distraction, or for more, but Stanley looked startled – Stanford could see his grip on the steering wheel tighten for a moment, the way his knuckles turned white – and then he smiled.

Neither of them said anything more. Stanley turned on the radio, and started to hum along with the song, while Bill attempted to eat the foil wrapper.

 

*

 

“Creamsicles!”

“Don’t give in, Stanley, be strong,” Stanford remarked absently, not lifting his gaze from his new journal. This had been going on the past twenty miles. It had been annoying at first, but by now he was vaguely impressed that Bill wanted ice cream this much.

“Klondike bars!”

Stanley was gripping the steering wheel tightly, shoulders hunched, staring ahead tensely, his expression haunted. “Where did’ya even learn all these names? You didn’t know what a  _cucumber_  was.”

Bill grinned. “Pushpops!” he said.

“You already gave him chocolate, Stanley, we’re not stopping for ice cream.”

“Nnn,” said Stanley, and then, in a different, calculative tone, like a man toying with fire. “Y’know, there’s a gas station coming up in three miles…”

Stanford shut his journal hastily, leaning against Stanley’s seat. “No. We’re half an hour from James’ place, we’re not doing this. He’s a  _manipulator_ , Stanley! He’s wearing you down! You can’t give in to him or he’s going to think he can push you around!” 

“ _Orange_  creamsicles!”

“I know that!” Stanley snapped. “Ya think I’m stupid or something?  _Don’t answer that_ ,” he said when Stanford opened his mouth.

“Drumsticks!”

“Listen to me, Stanley,” Stanford said, making his voice as level and soft as possible, leaning close. “It’s not your fault you’re wavering. You’re tired. He’s been shouting out ice cream names for almost half an hour. But this is a matter of  _principle_. He  _needs_  to learn that we’re in charge. You can do this, Stanley.”

Stanley let out a shaky exhale. “Yer right. I can do this. We don’t need no stinkin’ –“

“ _Ben ‘n Jerry’s_ ,” Bill whispered loudly.

The car lurched, because Stanley twisted the steering wheel. He groaned, long and rising exponentially, his teeth bared and changed their lane for the gas station.

“Stanley!” Stanford cried out, disappointed.

“Shut up! I’m in charge! We’re getting ice cream!  _This was my idea_!” Stanley snarled.

Stanford paused, and then settled back on his seat, mouth curling, as Bill burst into obnoxious laughter in the front seat. “All right.”

 

*

 

When they pulled up to the shabby, brown house, generously littered with autumn leaves, Bill was still in the middle of eating his ice cream, and arguing with Stanley.

“I bought it!” Stanley said. “One bite! Gimme  _one_  bite, and I’ll be happy!”

“Hmm?” Bill licked his ice cream cone luxuriously. “Did’ya say something, Ace? I couldn’t hear ya over this  _delicious dairy confectionery_.” Stanley made a face at him.

“I swear, when we leave here, you’ll be traveling strapped on the hood like an ornament, ya little –“ the rest of his words were drowned in Bill’s laughter.

“I think we’ve handed out way too many empty threats, Stanley,” Stanford remarked ruefully, the corners his mouth tugging at the sight of Stanley’s expression. He glanced at Bill, who was holding his ice cream precariously close to Stanford, half of it already gone – and moved before he could think about it too much, leaned between the seats and took a sizable chunk out of it with his teeth, cold be damned.

When he leaned back, Bill was staring at him, struck mute, with an expression of such horror and disbelief that Stanford couldn’t help but laugh.

“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me, Stanford Pines!” Bill cried out, staring sadly at his ice cream, nearly all gone now.

“Really?” Stanley asked doubtfully. “ _That’s_  the worst?”

“ _The worst thing_ ,” Bill repeated, clearly in some kind of a shock, and Stanford couldn’t help but laugh more, getting out of the car chuckling. Out of a whim, he even opened the door for Bill who glared up at him sullenly.

“Come on now, you crybaby,” Stanford said, grinning, offering his hand. Bill looked suddenly like he was considering something.

“Does that mean we’re  _even_  n- “

“No,” Stanford interrupted him firmly, taking Bill’s hand, and pulling him out of the car. He paused, feeling the chilly evening wind and looked down at Bill who was only wearing the dress they’d bought for him, even going barefooted. One of the straps had slid down his shoulder, and Stanford adjusted it absently, without thinking.

“Stanford! Stanford Pines! Ford!”

A man in his thirties, with dark hair and an obnoxiously salmon-pink shirt, bounced down the steps of his porch, and Stanford was immediately flooded with the memories of that face, followed with a pleasant twist in his stomach that didn’t happen often these days.

“James!” he called out, feeling a new kind of warm delight blossoming in his chest, turning to greet his friend. James looked about ready to tear up, hopping shoeless down the gravel path as if he just couldn’t have waited to pull on his sneakers, and Stanford wasn’t surprised, not at all: James had always been one of those people who came with the combination of genuine kind nature, and a clumsiness that meant that while he was hungry for friendship, he tended to alienate a lot of people with his sheer  _intensity_. Stanford had never minded it, though: going after other people had never been one of his strong points, but James had never hesitated in coming to him.

James flung his arms around Stanford enthusiastically, even though the man was about a head shorter than he was, laughing when Stanford patted him awkwardly, and all of a sudden it was that  _simple_. 

“Oh, god, I’m sorry about that – “ James laughed. “I think I stepped on a  _snail_  –“

“Can I introduce you? This is my brother Stanley –“ Stanley was staring at James and outright  _scowling_ , and Stanford moved on hastily while James gave out nervous greetings, “and this is – er – “

Bill was staring at James as well, his eyes narrowed, his expression blank as if he’d given up navigating his body for a moment to think, his remaining ice cream slowly melting onto his hand.

“Bill,” Stanford said, glancing at James nervously. James looked politely curious and bemused, and then his eyes lit up, a realization coming – and he turned to stare at Bill.

“ _That_  Bill?  _Bill Cipher_?” he breathed out, glancing between Stanford and Bill, suddenly sounding a little out of breath. “You – brought an actual supernatural being in the midst of a possession into my house, Stanford? You brought Bill Cipher? You brought Bill Cipher here. He’s here. He’s standing here.”

“Yes, that’s where he’s standing,” Stanford said dryly.

“Look at ya, Mr. Observant!” Bill drawled out suddenly, a lazy grin blossoming on his face as he held his hand out to James. His mouth was friendly, charming, but his eyes were staring at James with an intensity that would’ve made most people uncomfortable.

James didn’t even notice. He looked positively star-struck, awed, taking Bill’s hand gingerly like it might light him on fire, and Stanford felt a stab of guilt: he’d talked to James on the phone, every once in a while, before things had gotten bad, gushed about his research, gushed about  _Bill_  – god, he’d practically  _bragged_  about Bill, about the great honour bestowed upon him.

He wasn’t really sure how to go about correcting James’ obvious misassumptions of Bill being some great and benevolent being beyond their understanding, not when James looked like a kid in a candy shop just from shaking Bill’s hand.

“Okay – yeah, okay – “ said Bill, when James had been shaking his hand for a full minute. “That’s – wow, yeah – “ he pried his hand away gingerly. “Sheesh, Jackson, don’t wear out my dealing hand!”

“James,” Stanford said under his breath.

“Sorry,” James breathed out, laughed nervously, and then wiped his hands on his shirt. “Kinda sticky – sorry, I started sweating –“

“Yeah, I noticed!” Bill said, looking at his hand.

“So,” Stanford cleared his throat, clasping James’ shoulder to get his attention. “Should we go inside, or –“

“Oh! Right, yes! But first –“ James turned to Bill, his eyes wide. “Will you – would you do me the great honour and -  _bless_ my house?”

“Do what now?”

“I  _really_  don’t think you should ask him to do anything,” Stanford piped up, hastily. “I mean, he’s in a human body, he doesn’t really have powers in this state –“

“Sure I will!” Bill interrupted suddenly, beaming. “Step aside, Pineses and the extra! It’s time for Bill Cipher to do some do-gooder magic! Make this house safer and whatnot! No more wasps for  _you_ , buddy!”

“T- thanks?” James stammered.

“Don’t mention it! Always happy to meet a fan! Now, I’m going to need some rat kidneys…”

 

*

 

It had been a bizarre scene, Stanford reflected, sipping the tea James had prepared for them. He was pretty sure Bill had been chanting Disco Girl backwards throughout the whole thing. He’d also dribbled ice cream everywhere and then claimed it was a good-luck sigil, refusing the back down even when he’d gotten into a minor shouting match with Stanford. There had been no animal parts, thank god, but James had gotten a little worked up and fetched his dream-catcher and Bill had laughed so hard he’d cried a little.  

But, he thought, it had been surprisingly  _kind_  of Bill. All the mocking aside, it seemed like Bill had made an actual effort with Stanford’s old friend, and he… wasn’t sure what to think of that, to be honest. Most likely Bill was scheming something. Entertaining any thoughts otherwise was almost criminally naïve, and yet – and yet, Stanford really wished he could. It would’ve been nice.

They were all huddled in James’ living room. It, as well as the rest of the house was in a state of vague, lived-in disarray and a generous amounts of dust, but Stanford didn’t really find that surprising, considering how his own house had been even at the best of times. Talking to James was just as easy as he’d remembered – they’d slipped right back where they left off, except now Stanford had enough new stories to keep James in what appeared to be a permanent state of gasping. He really liked talking to James. It felt like talking to a more enthusiastic and supportive version of himself.   

“I can’t believe it!” James was shaking his head. “I hate cat people.”

“The worst thing were their  _tails_ ,” Stanford said.

“So,” Stanley said suddenly, holding a mug of tea that seemed to have remained untouched – eyeing James with such blatant hostility that Stanford wanted to chuck his own cup at Stanley’s inconsiderate face. “You went to college with Ford, didn’t ya?”

“Yes,” James blinked. “I – did, yes?”

“You went to college with him,” Stanley said. He looked at Stanford and scowled. “Same college. Were you in the same year too?”

“I was a year below,” James said shyly.

“Oh  _yeah_  –“ Stanley started, with a weird undertone of aggression. Bill elbowed him suddenly, sharply, and he yelped. “Fine! Whatever!”

“Stanley didn’t go to college,” Stanford said, suddenly irritated. “I don’t know whether he’s  _bitter_  about it, or –“   

Stanley stood up suddenly. “I’m not.” He paused. “’scuse me –“ And he turned, squeezing past the coffee table to the kitchen. Bill looked at Stanley’s retreating back, and then at Stanford: to his incredulous surprise, Bill stood up and made his way after Stanley without a word. 

“Um,” said James, and then “Did I do something to -?”

“No,” Stanford said, with a definite emphasis. “I don’t know –“ he paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Stanley and I haven’t had a good relationship in a long time.”

“You never talked about him,” James said, eyeing Stanford with awkward, but such  _genuine_  concern that he felt the need to immediately backtrack.

“We’re fine now! I mean – as fine as we’ll probably be, we don’t argue as much – it’s all right, really.” He looked back where Stanley and Bill had disappeared to.  

“You know,” James said, eyeing his cup of tea. “It’s not good to endlessly cling to the past, Ford. I mean – aside from cool mythology, of course.”

“I know that,” Stanford said, with a twinge of irritation. “I  _know_  that. Tell it to Stanley, however, shout it from the rooftops, he wouldn’t listen to you. He thinks we’re still seventeen, and it’s –“ he hesitated. “It’s a little exhausting, sometimes.”

James offered him a wan smile. “You were one of my best friends. It’s been really good to talk to you again.”

Stanford blinked, a little taken aback by the non-sequitur, and the warm sentiment he wasn’t used to sharing, suddenly finding himself staring at his empty cup. Was he supposed to say something back? Who’d been his best friend, once upon a time? Not James, certainly, although Stanford had liked him a lot, had enjoyed talking to him when he felt the urge to. Not even Fiddleford, although he’d been close, so close – Stanford had always held himself just a little bit apart, had found it difficult to close that gap with people.  

He cleared his throat. “What do you think of Bill?”

“I think he’s every bit as amazing as you described him to be,” James said, immediately, lighting up like a Christmas tree.

“Yes, well, he’s –“ said Stanford, who wasn’t sure how to even approach the subject, or whether it mattered anymore, now that Bill’s threat level had been downgraded from Imminent Apocalypse to: Occasionally Annoying; Steals Snacks; Yellow Dress.

“He’s  _otherworldly_ ,” James continued, a little dreamily. “You can see it even if he looks normal. It’s like he’s almost got you fooled, but there’s just something…  _off_.”

“Off,” Stanford repeated, thinking back to that sensation – of something watching you through human eyes.

James paused, smiling, like he was considering something amusing, a fascinating tidbit. “I bet he tries so hard to appear human.”

Stanford swallowed.

“Yes,” he said, evenly. “I bet he does.”

 

*

 

“I hope this is okay,” James said helplessly as he was making the fold-out bed, dusting off the sheets. “I mean, I’m already giving Bill my bedroom –“

“Which you absolutely didn’t have to do,” Stanford said.

“I don’t mind,” James said, smiling shyly. “It’s not every day you get a bona fide demon in your house. I just need to make sure, I, ah, dispose of some items in my room first.”

“Yes, he seems to find dream-catchers awfully funny,” Stanford said dryly. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Not at all! And tomorrow we can look at that equipment you need – honestly, feel free to take anything you want, anything that catches your eye –“

“Thank you,” Stanford said absently, shrugging off his coat. “Really, James – thank you. Not just for my sake, this anomaly has caused a quite a lot of ruckus. It’d be great if we could figure out the source soon and contain it.”

“So – anomaly,” James said uncertainly. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It’s –“ Stanford cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a by-product of an invention I made, unfortunately. The invention was recently turned on and it sort of – rippled the fabric of reality. What we’re doing could be compared to ironing – smoothing out the wrinkles, so to speak.” Nothing of the scale of the rift they’d experienced before, thank god, he added in his mind. But he hadn’t told James about the recent events in Gravity Falls, hadn’t had the heart to ruin Bill Cipher for him, when this was probably the first and last time those two would cross paths.

“That sounds like something out of my novels,” James said, after a pause, smiling weakly. Stanford recognized that expression, and moved to a lighter topic, hastily.

“It’s really nothing to worry about – tomorrow I’ll tell you about a town we went through on our way here,” he said, looking around distractedly. “I’m going to go find Stanley and Bill. I don’t feel good with those two being gone for so long by themselves- ”

He left James cramming pillows into pillowcases, and followed the faint, dusty footprints on the carpet that must have not been vacuumed in the past couple of years, and into the kitchen, the voices drifting into the hallway.

“ – let it go, Ace! Seriously, what’s the  _fascination_  with this stuff –“

“Why should I?” Stanley snarled. “Just because  _you_  don’t understand why it’s  _important_ \- “

“ _Shut up_!” Bill hissed abruptly. They fell silent for a moment, and Stanford stared at the poster on the wall without actually seeing it, breathing in the gently floating dust particles, the yellow light in the hallway not quite reaching into the dark kitchen, stopping, like something in the other room was eating it away. Stanley stalked out suddenly, looked at Stanford with an expression he couldn’t follow – and then  _scowled_ , moving past him, his shoulder bumping into his – and he was gone.

Stanford waited, for a heartbeat, and then looked into the kitchen.

Bill stood there, in the dark, his expression unreadable, his eyes glowing like lamps, and he smiled.

“Stanford Pines,” he said.

Stanford looked at him. Then, very deliberately, he  _looked_  at him, not the legs, the hair, or the mouth, not the outside shell – just the eyes, and what was staring at him through them.

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry – it was the damn dust.

“I’m going to bed,” he croaked, turning, and walking away hastily.

 

*

 

Stanford woke up.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and for a moment he had no idea where he was, he felt like he was choking, his legs trapped, and he scrambled wildly for his gun and his glasses – but before he could find either, he remembered.

A dream lingered somewhere in the edges of his mind, Bill’s yellow eyes and James’ soft voice haunting him. For some reason he expected to see Stanley lying next to him – not the old man he’d grown used to, but Stanley as he remembered him before the portal.

When he put his glasses on, in the darkness, he found that he could find neither. Stanley was gone. Once again, Stanford had woken up alone, sheets tangled by his ankles.

He sat silently for a moment and waited, hoping that Stanley had merely gotten up to use the bathroom – and then he rolled off the couch, and crept out of the living room.

There was no imminent sense of danger, like there had been in Eileen’s house, and Stanford crept along simply so as to not disturb the soft, dead silence of the house, listening. He wondered where James was sleeping. He’d forgotten to ask. He knew Bill was upstairs, and he paused at the staircase, hesitating, before he started to climb up. Maybe Stanley was having another cryptic conversation with Bill. Maybe Stanford would simply  _ask_ , this time, instead of letting himself be lulled with suspicion and self-doubt.  

As he arrived upstairs, he found the door of James’ room ajar, and the room itself empty.

There was a thump, somewhere above him, and muffled sound, dust showering him gently. Stanford stifled a cough, and looked around in the narrow space at the top of the stairs, found another door, and tried it: and there, there were the stairs to the attic, and the first distant, dim spot of light above them. Stanford climbed up, up, with no hesitation, feeling like he was still dreaming.

Up in the attic, he found old boxes, faded newspapers and folded carpets: and Stanley, Bill and James, the last one holding a flashlight, all three of them frozen to stare at Stanford as he arrived.

James dropped the box he was holding, and let out a choked sob.

“Quick, Ace!” Bill hissed. “Knock Sixer out!”

“What?” Stanley said incredulously. “No – look, just let it go, Bill.”

“What’s going on?” Stanford demanded. “Bill – what are you plotting now? Why is James here?”

“Settle down, bro,” Stanley said, lifting his hands. “It’s not what ya – actually, I have no idea what this looks like –“

“I didn’t do  _anything_!” Bill piped up indignantly.

“Stanford,” James said, lifting his head miserably. “It’s me. They followed me in here.”

“To bust you,” Stanley grunted.

“Well, actually, Ace came up here because he heard something and he thought it was me –“ Bill started.  

“Bust him for  _what_?” Stanford interrupted, irritated, his heart beating fast. “What did he do?” He had no idea what was going on, his mind racing, ready to refuse to believe anything. James let out a little half-hearted laugh, the saddest sound Stanford had ever heard him made.

“Sixer,” Stanley said, staring at Stanford hard, frowning. “Look at him.”

“I am!” Stanford snapped impatiently. “What? What am I supposed to see?”

“I think it’s flattering,” James said quietly, his voice breaking. Stanford stared at him, hard, studied James’ familiar features, the face he’d spent semesters looking at: his dark eyes and his dark hair, a sort of angular face, never really very handsome but always in a good mood, normal and –

– so  _young_.

It felt like a physical pain, a cold hand winding around his heart and  _squeezing_ , panic and horror and grief intermingling into a tangled mess in his head, and all he could think of was that he hadn’t noticed, from the first moment that James had stepped out of the house, he hadn’t  _noticed_.

“I don’t know,” James was saying, smiling weakly, mirthlessly. “I think I might be dead.”

Stanford stood in the dark, filthy attic and stared at his old college buddy, who, despite the dramatic framing of the flashlight, was wearing superhero pajamas, and looked grubby, short and  _alive_.

 _Dead_ , his mind repeated, like it was running in mad circles trying to connect the word to what was before him.  _Dead, dead, dead_. He wanted to ask questions, to get to the bottom of this, to  _resolve_ , but he couldn’t speak.

“How did’ya die?” Stanley grunted out suddenly, glancing at Stanford, and he realized: Stanley had seen it, from the first moment, and he’d tried to make Stanford see it as well.

“I don’t know,” James said slowly, glancing between them, worrying his wrist between his fingers. “Seriously – I don’t. It happened over thirty years ago.” He paused. “I remember – thinking how  _strange_  it was. How unusual – I remember thinking I should find my camera. Maybe I imagined a flash of light. But the next moment, I just knew – I was dead.”

Stanford took a deep breath, and another, adjusted his glasses, adjusted his thoughts too. “What – what are we doing in the attic?”

James hung his head, like he was ashamed. “Well, once you talked about the whole – anomaly thing, I finally figured out something.” He turned his head, gestured at the back of the attic. “There’s something up here – I’ve been recording it for years, but it’s just like a scratch – into, into reality or something. I don’t know, I just thought,” he turned his pleading eyes to Stanford. “I thought it was what you meant.”

“So you were trying to  _hide_  it?” Stanley scowled.

“Yes,” James said tensely, staring into space. “Because I think it’s why I’m still hanging around.”

A hushed silence fell into the attic for a moment.

Stanford cleared his throat, stared at the dusty footprints on the floor. Something was nagging at him, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. “Well, when I said we had to contain it –“

“You have to,” James said, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I get that. I panicked, I’m sorry – I don’t even know what I was trying to do.”

“James, I –“ He’d touched him. He’d touched James, he’d sat next to him. The dust in the air felt like it was crawling into his throat, his eyes, making them water.

“Stanford – look,” James said, stepping closer – speaking in that soft, coaxing tone that made the hair at the back of Stanford’s neck stand up, because he was too kind, he was being too kind. “I don’t know what I’m doing here – I don’t know what I’ve been doing the past years, but it hasn’t been living. I’ve just kind of – existed.” He hesitated, and then touched Stanford’s shoulder gingerly, and Stanford fought against the urge to flinch away. “It was  _nice_  to see you. I didn’t think I would. It was nice. You were a good friend to me when I didn’t have many. Thank you.”

Stanford swallowed and stared at James blankly, and thought,  _you’re not even my best friend_ , and felt incredibly guilty. James looked at him and smiled, like he knew what Stanford was thinking, and it just made it all the more worse.

“I’ll say goodbye, then,” Stanford said, and then, “Wait. Did you say – thirty years?” Next to him, Stanley tensed up, as if someone had called him on his bluff.

“Ford –“

“About so,” James said. “Why?”

And it was then that the last piece clicked into place.

“I killed you,” Stanford said hollowly.

All that time, he’d thought the latest opening of the portal had been the cause of all their problems, the reason that his monitors had picked up trouble. But who else could have been able to spot what he’d seen, in the past three decades? It wasn’t until Stanford had come, until he’d wiped those screens and went through the readings that he’d seen what must have been in plain sight this whole time.

“No,” James said. “No- no, I know what you must be thinking, Stanford, but there’s no way you can blame yourself –“

“Yeah,  _listen_  to him, Ford –“

Stanford turned his head and met those familiar yellow eyes in the darkness, and thought, yes I can, oh, yes I can. It was so easy.

“I killed you,” Stanford said evenly, staring at Bill. “It was unintentional. It was just a by-product of what I’d been doing, and I never found out. But I did it. Let’s get that right. I  _killed you_ , James,” he turned to look at his old college friend again, his throat aching to swallow. “I’m so sorry.” He paused, helplessly.

“Stanford –“

“I’m sorry,” Stanford repeated, his voice rasping, suddenly needing, more than anything else, for James to  _believe it_.

James stared up at his face and he looked so young, exactly the same, awkward and kind and never as smart as Stanford: and Stanford had always known that fact, had always taken it for granted. Had he even bothered to really get to know James, aside from what James offered to him? He felt sick, and old, ancient at this point and stupider than he’d ever been in his life, but he knew what he had to do, and he knew it was his punishment.

“I have to kill you again,” he said to James’ unflinching face. “I have to take that thing and contain it.  _I’m sorry.”_   

 James looked serious now, and a little scared: he swallowed and then took a deep breath, and smiled. “It’s okay, Stanford. At least you brought me Bill Cipher.”

 

*

 

Stanford stood in the dusty, empty kitchen of a dead man, and watched the sunlight filter through the grime in the window. He thought about spending his next thirty years in this kitchen, watching everything slowly decay. He’d never bothered to imagine anything more horrifying than the place he’d been to, and yet, there it was.

There was a soft sound against the carpet, and Stanford turned, fully expecting Stanley, preparing himself for some ham-fisted comfort.

Bill stood in the kitchen door, in the exact same spot Stanford had stood the night before, staring at him. Stanford stared back, and thought about best friends, and James’ simple, genuine happiness, about apologies. The dust was tickling his eyes, and suddenly, he couldn’t see Bill anymore: suddenly, everything was blurry, hot, awkward tears spilling down his cheeks, and he felt as if he should hide it somehow, but he’d never been that good hiding things from Bill. Let him see.

“What are you doing?” Bill asked, and he sounded genuinely baffled, walking closer. Stanford huffed out a wet laugh.

“What does it look like? I’m crying. My friend just died, Bill.”

“He was already dead,” Bill said, staring at him, and Stanford took off his glasses to wipe his eyes.

“Did you think I’d be happy if I didn’t know?” he asked, hoarsely. “Why did you try to hide it, Bill?”

Bill didn’t answer, just stared at Stanford, unreachable, cryptic, and then he reached out – Stanford flinched when Bill’s finger brushed his cheek, just under his eye, wiping away the wetness there, and for a brief second, it was comforting: and he watched, his vision blurred, as Bill brought his finger back to his mouth, and tasted it.

_I bet he tries so hard to appear human._

Something in Stanford’s chest clenched unpleasantly, and he pushed Bill back, sending him stumbling.

“ _Stop that_! Can’t you – I’m crying, Bill! I’m crying! Do you understand? Do you understand how I feel?  _He was my friend_!” he stopped, panting, and Bill looked – surprised, staring at Stanford warily, still not speaking, still not saying a word, and usually he had a snide comment for everything…

“You called me your friend once,” Stanford continued, lowly. “Remember? But – I don’t think you knew what that meant. I think you just  _parroted a word you’d heard._  You don’t understand anything about our world. You don’t understand me.”

“Not true, Stanford Pines,” Bill said, his voice surprisingly small.

Stanford sucked in a breath, shuddering, gritting his teeth: tears threatening to spill down his cheek again. It had been so long since he’d cried, and he  _hated_  it, his throat burning, his eyes itching, grief churning, aching, in his chest. “ _I’m crying_ , Bill. This is what being a human is  _like_. If you ever were my friend – if you understand like you say – what would you do?”

He waited – and Bill gave out the answer, the worst answer Stanford wanted to hear.

“I don’t know,” Bill said, helplessly, in the hollow silence of the kitchen. 

Stanford huffed out a sudden, sobbing little laugh, unable to help himself. He wasn’t even sure what was so funny. Nothing, really. All he did was go around in circles, round and round, and always leading to Bill. 

“I thought you knew –  _lots of things_ ,” he rasped out, at Bill’s unblinking, still eyes.

Then he walked out of the kitchen, leaving him behind. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter has a trigger warning for violence! Uh. Everyone gets rekt, basically. Someone loses a tooth. That sort of thing.

 The universe turned like a wheel, producing endless unimaginable realities that lived and died like fireflies, people moved like heavy anchors against the tide of uncertainty, little islands of life, biology and energy all jumbled together into something that _somehow_ made sense, and somewhere in that universe, Bill Cipher sat in a car that coughed as it got to the highway, and _itched_.

Sixer still had that, that _expression_ on his face, like some unfathomable code, and Bill was _not_ peeking behind him to see whether it had changed since the last time they’d passed a carcass on the side of the road. He just sat in his body and itched and itched and itched until he felt like screaming, filling the whole world with his voice until it was all that was left, tearing himself out of his fleshy prison. That’d show Sixer, having _emotions_ all over the place. Another apocalypse. Well done, Sixer.

He hated his body, he hated it, every second of the _stupid_ heavy sensation of his _stupid_ nerves and veins and bones surrounding him, trapping him in, grounding him to this _stupid_ reality. Because it was _stupid_. Everything was left to the few senses you possessed! Humans stumbled along like blind monkeys, making decisions based on nothing except their weird, gross bodies, and thought that _somehow_ they made the world go around! Didn’t they notice how they kept on rotting? Were they all just pretending? Was Bill being _punk’d_?

It was all time’s fault, _obviously_. Time was useless, _useless_ , and if he’d had his way it would’ve stopped existing. All it did was make his body deteriorate, turn Sixer grey and Ace wheezing, and produce _stupid giant fat babies._

Bill felt personally victimized by time.

Ace kept glancing in his way, as if he thought Bill didn’t notice, but oh, he did, Bill Cipher could still see things! Even if it was only through his eye. Eyes. Yes. Eyes on the road, Ace! A couple of times, Ace opened his mouth, as if to say something, and Bill turned and stared out of the window, willing for the passing trees to spontaneously combust, feeling like his true self was churning behind his eye (eyes!). 

They’d left the house of that living memory in respectful silence, or they’d tried to, but Bill had talked, of course he’d talked, because Sixer got mad with him all the time (or perhaps just spent his time more or less angry to save time). Frankly Bill didn’t even know what he’d done, this time around. Hadn’t Sixer wanted to see his old friend? Hadn’t he wanted to reminisce and laugh and forget?

_What would you do?_

He’d tried to give him what he _wanted_.

Sixer had turned to him then, his eyes like shuttered windows, and Bill’s body had turned cold for no reason, that disobeying lump of flesh. 

“Shut up,” Sixer had said, his shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to listen to you anymore. Just be quiet.”

There had been no incantation, no spell, no words of power, and yet, Bill had not been able to say anything else.

He sat with his legs pulled up, his hair tickling his skin, legs brushing against cold metal, his nails growing too loud, all the weird, squishy bits inside him going on about their business completely disregarding whether Bill _wanted_ to have his food digested or not. Ace was breathing next to him, the car hummed, but all of that noise disappeared, drowned underneath his own cursed body that wouldn’t stop _making noise_.

The silence made it worse. He wondered if Sixer truly understood, if he grasped what an amazingly cruel trap they’d created for Bill, because Bill was fairly sure he’d never been this bothered about something as simple as heartbeat before, and yet, _yet it kept on going_ , on and on and on!

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

Did humans hear this? Did they just live with it? He was going to claw his own chest open! Maybe _that’d_ finally make Sixer speak to him. If not, Bill was going to chuck a heart at him. Humans had three, right?

Ace cut through the thick silence abruptly, by clearing his throat and speaking up. “We should look for a motel to stay tonight.”

“Sounds good,” Sixer said, colourlessly, from the backseat. “You pick, Ley.”

“What, whaddya think, Bill?” And Ace turned to him, the corners of his mouth lifting upwards, his eyes looking like they were waiting for something, tentatively. “Ya could use a shower, you’re starting to smell like bananas.” He sniffed. “I don’t think we even got you any.”

He wanted his freedom! He wanted to be _Bill Cipher_ again, pure and beautiful and equilateral, not this twisted amalgamation! He wanted Sixer to tell him what he’d been supposed to do! He wanted to peel his skin off with a fruit knife!

“ _You’re_ bananas,” he muttered sullenly.

“ _Nice_ , nice comeback,” Ace said, baring his teeth briefly as he rubbed his ear. “Real nice. So no opinion on the motel? I guess we’ll just pick the first one that comes in our way.” He glanced at Bill again, and then reached out, opening some kind of a compartment where Bill had previously rested his legs on. A hidden treasure! Gold!

“Got some hard candies,” Ace muttered vaguely. “Knock yerself out, I guess.”

 Something edible! Even better!

He filled his mouth and his ears with the crunch and rustle, the slippery things hard under his teeth. Ace, next to him, sighed and leaned back, smiled at him, and Bill thought, what had become a habit, _I accept this offering_.

“There’s a motel two miles from here,” Ace said, when they passed a sign. “Sure, sounds good. Sounds _cheap_.” He raised his voice. “Sound good to you, Ford?”

Bill stared ahead, chewing, as he heard a sigh and a rustle behind him, and he could see Sixer’s face without turning, the miniscule ways that it shifted – he’d spent long enough in it for it to feel like home. 

“I told you,” Sixer said tiredly. “You pick, Ley.”

“All right!” Ace said, too loudly, baring his teeth again, gripping the wheel, and Bill couldn’t fathom it, these things that passed through his face. “Y’know, this is just – never mind. Never mind.  Let’s go then. Bill, you’re not supposed to eat the wrappers as well.”

Bill rebelliously ate more wrappers. Ace didn’t understand!

The slimy, slippery paper sticking to his throat was the only thing distracting him from the fact that his body was quite possibly nearing its end. Maybe _it_ would spontaneously combust.

How else could one explain the ache in his chest?

 

*

 

They stood side by side at the parking lot, staring at the run-down, dark building that was the motel while Stanley fetched their keys.

Stanford was unimaginably tired. He felt like he’d been possessed, like Bill had somehow insidiously slipped into his mind and made him think he was thirty again, young and silly and awkward. Or maybe he was just confused. He _had_ spent thirty years away.

The truth was that Stanford was old, a foolish old man who’d nearly broken this world; who’d stood in the silent house of his old friend he’d never even thought to miss, and all he’d been able to think was how much Bill didn’t understand him. The grief and shame had stuck in his throat like the dust in his clothes, and he kept swallowing, trying to get it out, his eyes dry and hurting as he stared the worn curtains in the windows.

He was making plans for their return, trying to think up ways to be alone, to get his head together. Sure, he missed the children, but they barely knew him, so a brief appearance and mild disappointment would probably be what they were getting. Stanley would let Bill stay, if their banter was anything to go by. Stanford could only hope his brother would never have to come to the same conclusions as he had, and that his biggest worry would be Bill scribbling rude words on the signs outside.

He had to keep reminding himself that this is what Bill _did_ – that Bill was unignorable, that Bill was magical, and monstrous, and that eventually you got used to it and you started projecting your own feelings to him, like humans tended to do. It didn’t mean _anything_.

Of course, ignoring Bill as it was, while the ideal approach, was damn near impossible.

“I don’t like this place!” Bill whined, fidgeting where he stood.

Stanford’s dramatic outburst in the kitchen had been somewhat watered down when they’d all piled into the car, and Bill had apparently taken this as an invitation to proceed as usual. Stanford wondered if he even understood anything was wrong.

“Should’ve said something to Stanley then,” Stanford murmured wearily.

“I’m saying it to you, Sixer!” Bill was too loud, his voice cutting in the empty parking lot.

He could see in the corner of his eye Bill peering at him, and for the first time he realized he could _feel_ Bill’s attention, like a physical sensation, a strange, prickling feeling, a suggestion of heat turned towards him – and he bet that he’d felt the opposite too, whenever Bill had abandoned him, whenever Bill had turned away like a sunflower choosing another sun. Bill had made him feel like the sun. He was pathetic, _pathetic_ , and there was no one else in the world who’d ever made him feel as special.

“ _C’mon_ , Sixer,” Bill started, his voice low, and Stanford braced himself.

“Got ‘em!” Stanley called out, walking back to them. Stanford could’ve hugged him. “Y’know, it’s the darnest thing – there was no one at the reception! Just keys, so I picked us one, I mean, if someone comes, we can pay ‘em –“

“That’s weird!” Bill piped up. “Just pointing that out. In case anyone’s interested. Ancient dream demon here, finding that weird.”

“You mean we’ll steal a room?” Stanford asked, slipping his finger running his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

“Hey!” Stanley looked injured. “It’s not _stealing_ if we’re ready to pay for it. Got keys and everything. Their fault anyway, for not manning the damn desk-“

The whole place was odd, and smelled of something burnt, but Stanford felt so tired, his eyes aching with the need to close them. “Fine. Let’s just get inside. We’ll figure it out if someone comes over.”

They made their way indoors, only for Bill to stop at the doorway. Granted, the room wasn’t all that nice. The lighting was terrible, the overhead lights so dim that Stanford had to squint, the corners of the room somehow deep and cast in shadows, and the bedding was a horrible red and black pattern that gave him a headache if he looked at it too closely, but at least it was clean.

Stanford wondered why there weren’t any other customers around. Was the motel actually closed?

“What, waiting for invitation?” Stanley asked. “Bill, take a damn shower already!”

“This place is suspicious,” Bill said sullenly.

“You think jello’s suspicious,” Stanley grunted, tossing his bag onto the bed.

“Nothing jiggles that much if isn’t sentient, Ace!”

Stanley groaned in frustration, dragging Bill inside. “We’re not having this argument again!”

“Spoilsport,” Bill muttered.

Stanford stared at the bed, thinking, longingly, of sleep that had evaded him for almost twenty-four hours, and he felt Bill stare at him. Stanley ducked outside, fetching the rest of the bags.

For some reason, fresh irritation had reared its head.

“ _What_ is it?” he snapped.

“Yeesh!” Bill leaned back, from where he’d perched on one of the beds, examining Stanford. “I was just checking if you’re leaking again!”

“It’s called _crying_ , for the last time, Bill, you’ve made enough people do it  –“ He _felt_ like crying. Perhaps because he was at the end of his wits, when they’d stepped into the room everything had just seemed to _magnify_.

His head felt like it was a in a vice.

“You know what’d be funny?” Bill observed. “If you kept on frowning so much your face just sort of _collapsed_ in on itself! Ha! What I’m saying is, cheer up, smart guy.”

_He can’t care about you._

Suddenly Stanford was at the end of his patience, his mind hazy with exhaustion and his eyes hot because Bill was so damn _casual_ -

“ _Bill_!” he snapped. And Bill stilled, turning to stare at Stanford with his strange eyes that he couldn’t meet, hot sensation prickling his skin, and he ground his teeth, swinging the bathroom door open.

“In there,” he said, between his teeth. “Right now.”

“ _Gotcha_ ,” Bill drawled, approaching Stanford, his eyes gleaming unpleasantly, knife-sharp mirth lingering. “Ya starting to forget your words, Sixer? Is that why you don’t want to talk to me, the _age’s_ getting to ya –“

_Just an impostor, pretending to be human._

“ _Shut up_!” Stanford snapped, the master of comebacks, but he was so tired, and every nasty thing Bill had ever said to him seemed stuck in the surface of his thoughts – and he grabbed Bill by his arm, shoving him into the bathroom.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on now, Ford?” Stanley said, from the door, his voice low, staring at him. “Because the seesawing’s giving me a whiplash. What’d he do _now_?”

“Nothing!” Bill shouted from the other side of the door, ironically speaking the truth and Stanford took off his glasses, let the world blur. The shadows on the wall looked like they were moving when Stanley approached him.

“I told’ya,” Stanley said softly, putting a hand on Stanford’s arm. “Ya gotta decide – you decided, didn’t ya? What’s so different now?”

“Nothing!” Stanford snapped. “That’s the problem! No matter how many times I do this dance with Bill, it’ll always end up the same way, because he’s _Bill Cipher_!”

Bill had fallen silent, in the bathroom. Small blessings.

Stanley frowned at him. “Ya sure? Just, seems a bit different, what with him in that body and all –“

_Looks like Mr. Brainiac finally got smart!_

He was scared, distantly, with the way grief and bitterness and anger seemed to be rapidly choking him out, and he stared at Stanley’s face – still a stranger, still a face he didn’t recognize, but somehow even more so; and what did that say about him, that the only person worth remembering hadn’t even been a _person_.

“Wise up, Stanley,” he said, hoarsely. “He’s never any different. Not him.” It was like his own words kept echoing in his head, repeating themselves, whispering over each other again and again and again until he couldn’t think of anything else, and he stared at Stanley’s face in the darkness, watched frustration and pity struggle there. Had Stanley closed that door? He didn’t remember anymore.

Stanley turned away, rubbing his face.

“Y’know, none of us change,” he said, haltingly, tightly. “I just want ya to be happy. You knucklehead. What’s it matter how it happens?”

“You don’t get it!” Stanford snapped. “If you like him so much –“

 _Maybe Bill likes him more than he likes me_ , his thoughts echoed back to him and he turned, bumping into a table, something crashing onto the floor. When he squinted, he could see it was a lamp. The sound of glass shattering seemed to echo in the room long after it’d happened like it was trapped, and it felt as it unleashed  _something_.

“I like _you_!” Stanley yelled. “Ya think I wasted thirty years of my life for no reason? You think I _like_ seeing you like this, you miserable old martyr –“

“Stop butting into my business!” Stanford snarled. “You’ve taken my name, my life, my house – this is- this _is_ none of your business, Stanley! None of your business! You don’t know anything! You don’t – you don’t understand and you can’t, how could you possibly –“ _understand, he doesn’t understand_ “- understand, _stop pretending you understand_!”

Suddenly Stanford saw himself outside of his own body, saw the two of them, brothers, circling each other like lions while he watched from the ceiling, and then Stanley turned, his face twisted like he might cry, always crying after Stanford like Stanford was heartless, like Stanford ruined his life, who was the martyr here-

“FINE!” Stanley yelled out hoarsely. “Y'know what - screw you, Ford – screw your college, your _degrees_ , your research, who _cares_ \- you know what, you and Bill deserve each other because you’re not even HUMAN, _aren’tcha_ –“ _did you honestly think you were a **good** human, Stanford Pines- _

There was a part of him, some part, that felt terrified beyond belief by how fast he was unraveling, by Stanley’s words, by all of it – but it was like he couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t take control, and he watched himself – or Stanley? – lunge, a chair broke, the lights, whatever remained, flickered wildly and suddenly there was just some carnal, dark despair that he couldn’t understand, that seemed to be swallowing him up – was it him? He watched himself struggle with Stanley on the motel floor, the two of them snarling at each other like wild animals and he heard a crack, a sound of glass breaking, and something sharp touched his cheek and he thought _glasses_ but he’d stopped being able to tell whether those were his or Stanley’s, his lungs burning, his head burning, the walls so dark, so dark –

Hands grasped him and wrenched him back and he met Bill’s wide eyes and at the same time saw him, shorter, smaller, uncomfortably bright in the yellow dress and he _hated him,_ more than he’d ever been able to, his hearts (heart?) thundering in his ears, he was so much bigger now, so much _stronger_ \- Bill said something, something about who he was, and he called out for a name – Stanford Pines – and he said it again, who are you, _who are you_ –

A voice snarled wordlessly in answer, hoarse and wild, and it was _his_.

He turned, swinging the punch with his whole body and he watched Bill crumble onto the floor from the ceiling.

Everything went dark.

*

There was something in his mouth. Bill dragged his face from the carpet, feeling it with his tongue, the taste of salt and metal spreading across it, his eyes malfunctioning, unfocusing, and then spit it out – his tooth landed on the carpet, and he stared at it. His heart was beating so loudly right now that he could barely hear the incoherent ranting.

Sixer – no, not Sixer, not right now – dragged him up abruptly, his grip sending Bill’s body into a wild joyride of pain, the sensation exploding in his brain, distracting him – it hadn’t been like this, before, before he’d never felt the bodies like this, this was all Stanford’s fault, _this was all his fault_ –

They’d walked right in like insects into Venus Fly Trap, hadn’t they? Bill had felt it, something oppressive, something whispering in the corners, but his eyes only saw a limited amount of dimensions and anyway, the Pineses hadn’t been in a listening mood. Bill was a constant martyr for human ignorance.

Sixer’s fist sent sparks in his body’s brain and Bill felt himself land against something hard that gave out, tearing loudly, and suddenly he couldn’t even talk; he was completely trapped, his body resisting every attempt for his usual defense, for speech, and his treacherous eyes found Sixer’s face in the darkness, twisted beyond recognition, blurring around the edges, and he thought an insane thought that felt like it pierced his heart hammering in his chest, as he was dragged back up.

_You used to worship me._

“I,” it – not Sixer, not Sixer _, not Stanford_ panted, “I’ll show you what you are, now – _I’ll show you how weak you are, Bill_ –“

His useless, useless body shook, and he was a weak, _stupid_ , weak human; and something that wasn’t Bill, or the motel, took over, and he stumbled underneath Sixer’s arm, his bare feet stepping on something sharp and something warm, his shoulder colliding with something that gave away, the door swinging open – Bill stumbled outside, gasping, tendrils of darkness trying to drag him back in while Sixer screamed his name – and the door shut behind him.

Suddenly the ground was quite close, and it was because he was on his knees now, his body heaving and churning like it wanted to turn inside out, his chest burning, his eyes – his dumb eyes leaking, congratulations, Bill Cipher, you’ve officially become a disgusting shape of flesh and chemicals! He heaved, something bitter rising up his throat, and he thought, I want to be me again, I want to be powerful _, I want, I want, I want –_

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

It wouldn’t shut up! All he wanted was for it shut up, be quiet, stop reminding him, and it _wouldn’t_ , nothing obeyed his commands anymore!

It was all he could hear because the parking lot was silent, his own heart constantly reminding him of what he was. What could he do? They’d been the ones to make him weak, they were the ones paying the price, not that Bill would’ve necessarily rescued them even if he’d been his true self – he could run and he could find a way to unleash himself, he could be free again, somehow, he could go back to Gravity Falls and have vengeance, he could take over the world again, he could break it, play with it, crush it under his heel and have a good ol' time and watch the spark die out for good. He could do it. He could.

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

There was nothing he could do like this. Besides, Sixer hated him. Not that it mattered, anyway, it was funny! He looked so adorable whenever he’d tried to annihilate Bill! Why would he -?

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

Enough already! Bill clutched his chest, the pain unbearable now, and doubled over, and for some reason Sixer stood in the kitchen, uninvited, staring at him. There were no memories, for Bill Cipher, just moments of time, disjointed, appearing unwanted.

_What would you do?_

“I don’t _know_ ,” Bill rasped.

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

_Ba-dump_

 

*

 

He was ancient, an endless collection of rooms, his paint peeling in places. Inside, he buzzed with pain and hatred and grief, emotions so strong they gave him power to look at travelers passing by, reach somewhere deep in them and pull them inside. He was –

Who was he?

Bill Cipher kicked him open. Or the door? Was he the door? Was it him? The demon stood, panting and haggard, his mouth bloodied and his eyes piercing the darkness like wild lamps; in his hand was an axe.

Something stirred in his memory.

Bill Cipher let out an inhuman snarl and swung the axe clumsily, the blade digging into the wall; and blinding pain pierced through him, but it wasn’t _his_ pain, and suddenly Stanford realized that he was lying on the floor next to Stanley. He gasped for breath, and stared at Bill who seemed to eat away the darkness, who glowed wild and savage, and suddenly, uninvited, he remembered the cave paintings, another lifetime ago.

Those people had thought Bill was a god.

“How DARE YOU?” Bill demanded from the shadows, his voice strange and echoing as he swung the axe again, panting from sheer rage. “YOU WANNA TAKE SOMETHING THAT’S MINE? PICK ANOTHER UNIVERSE, BUDDY!” Wood shattered and creaked and Stanford felt like his ears were about to pop, a continuous tinny whine, so high he couldn’t really hear it, just feel it, echoing in the room, like something begging for mercy; Bill laughed like mad and swung the axe, again and again.

“THEY GAVE ME THINGS! THEY BLED FOR ME AND I ACCEPTED IT, EVERY SINGLE THING, AND IT COUNTS, YOU MOTH-BITTEN SHACK! _HOW DARE YOU_!” and he hacked away, like a deranged, glowing knight, and the motel screamed as Stanley stirred next to Stanford, who couldn’t move, who could only stare, his head clear but still as water, as if Bill had bewitched him to the spot.

Bill cackled hysterically. “WHAT’CHA GONNA DO?” he bellowed, taunting, triumphant. “GIVE ME A SPLINTER!?” and he turned, bashing away the beds. “MINE, MINE, _MINE_ –“

“Bill?” Stanley rasped. Bill wheeled around, staring at them like some horrifying angel of judgement come down from the heavens to dispel justice, axe in hand, although angels ever wore torn summer dresses, and he pointed at the door.

“OUT!” Bill snarled. And the Pineses obeyed, scampering like naughty schoolchildren, Stanley first and tugging Stanford with him.

Stanford stumbled outside, to the empty parking lot, the Stanmobile standing there loyally and gasped for breath while Stanley doubled over and coughed, spitting onto the asphalt.

“Yeesh!” Stanley exclaimed, running his shaking fingers through his hair. One of the lenses in his glasses was broken, the mirror image of Stanford’s. He seemed to be at loss for words, trying again. “Yeesh!”

“Yes,” Stanford rasped out, intelligibly.

Behind them, came the sound of an axe clattering onto the ground. Stanford turned, and there was Bill, panting, missing a tooth, and Stanford could only vaguely remember every poisonous thing he’d said, but remember he did. He swallowed – his throat felt like sandpaper.

“Bill,” he started, and the dream demon stalked forward, like he was challenging him for a fight – and then let out a frustrated, gravely sound, not the kind of sound a human throat should make, doubling over, clawing his arms and screaming, and Stanford took a hasty step back, away from the madness.

“What is it?!” Bill snarled, his nails leaving deep, red gouges on his forearms. “ _What is it_ , Stanford Pines? _Huh_?! Tell me! What was I supposed to do! Do you even _understand_ \- ” and he raised up, hands in his hair, jerking like a puppet as he teared out a fistful, and Stanford reached out, mindlessly desperate, and grasped his wrists to stop him. Bill looked up like a dog smelling for blood, teeth bared and stared up at him, and Stanford felt like he was staring straight into the sun, like he was trying to contain the supernova; Bill jerked against his grip, making a frustrated sound as he panted, and Stanford wanted to speak but he couldn’t, he couldn’t find the words to say that maybe understanding wasn’t so important after all, maybe it was impossible –

“ _Did I do it?!”_ Bill screamed, or tried to scream, demanding for answer – his voice getting hoarse, raw. “Did I do it _now_? What you wanted, what you expected - Did I do it, Sixer? Tell me! Is _this_ it?” Stanford couldn’t answer, and Bill bowed his head suddenly, his breath rattling, and Stanford wasn’t sure if he could hear his own heart beating, or Bill’s, as Bill continued lowly. “That wasn’t it, was it?”

And Stanford thought, _not really_.

“Yes,” he rasped out, holding onto Bill’s wrists so hard his knuckles went white. “That was it. You did it, Bill.”

Bill lifted his head slowly and stared at him.

Stanley coughed, quietly.

They turned as if synchronized, to stare at him, and his brother made a face, and rubbed the back of his neck. A haunted expression still lingered in his eyes.

“I think,” Stanley said. “Ford, can’t we just go home now?”

Stanford looked down at Bill, and then slowly, his fingers stiff and aching, released his grip. Bill let his hands fall down to his sides, mutely.

“Let’s,” Stanford said, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s go home.”

 

*

 

“Of course no one notices,” Bill scoffed, examining the gap on his teeth from the mirror. “Humans are practically _champions_ of ignoring weird stuff! What, did’ya think someone _invented_ birthday balloons?”

“Well, I used to,” Stanford muttered. Right now they suddenly seemed very menacing. He hoped Dipper and Mabel hadn’t got any for their party.

Stanley cleared his throat, eyeing Bill carefully. “Ah – meant to say there, before- “

“So when’s it gonna grow back?” Bill asked brightly. Stanley stared at him for a moment, and then turned to look at Stanford, pleadingly.

“It won’t,” Stanford said bluntly, settling in on the backseat. “Not to worry, I can fix it.”

Stanley grunted, turning back, to start the car. “How? Got some – thingamajib, that’ll grow him a robot tooth?”

“No, actually, I have a degree.” Stanford paused. “In dentistry.”

Stanley fell absolutely silent. Stanford wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say, when Stanley’s shoulders started shaking. He was laughing.

“What’s so funny, Ace?” Bill demanded, looking injured to not be included in the joke.

“He’s got – “ Stanley gasped, lifting his head, chortling helplessly, leaning against the wheel. “He’s got a degree – as a _dentist_!”

“I didn’t have a single cavity in thirty years,” Stanford muttered. The car horn honked as Stanley absolutely lost it, and Stanford couldn’t help it – he chuckled, and it left his chest feeling light. Bill huffed, looking put-upon as he crossed arms over his chest, like the world’s smallest and fanciest hockey player, and Stanford was sure they all looked like hell as well. He _really_ wanted to go home now. 

A thought occurred to him. “I’ll get you next one made out of gold,” he told Bill. “Humans like to do that.”

Bill brightened considerably, although he gave Stanley, who was still chortling quietly, a light push. Stanley swatted his hand, and then puts his own on Bill’s shoulder.

“I accept that,” Bill said graciously.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last chapter! Thank you so much for all your kind feedback, both here and in Tumblr - seriously, I don't think I would've EVER finished this whole thing without it, I have the confidence and self-motivational skills of a SPONGE. It meant a great deal for me. 
> 
> There is a joke somewhere in this chapter referencing to a similar joke in Parks and Recreation. If you spot it, I'll - um, I'll tell you a fun fact from the original draft. Or you can suggest new fic ideas...? You know what, if you spot it, you can just bask in the knowledge that you've watched that show as obsessively as I have. Well done!

Stanford woke up, slow and gradual, warmed by the sun against his coat, his head resting on the coarse material of the bag he was using as a pillow. Stanley was driving: for a brief moment Stanford squinted at the wide-set shoulders and the thick neck from his low position in the backseat, and thought, _dad_.

It was not an unpleasant shadow of a memory.

He woke up properly, and sat up, touching his face only to find his glasses missing.

He sighed. “Bill –“

Stanley hissed, moving one hand from the wheel to bring it to his lips. “Quiet,” he rasped. Stanford frowned and shifted to peer into Bill’s seat.

Bill was asleep. He looked a mess, as they all did, with a tooth missing and his face bruised (not that he’d seemed to care), his head resting on the dashboard in a position that looked immensely uncomfortable. He was talking in his sleep, a steady, silent murmur in each exhale, and Stanford pricked his ears uselessly to make it out. It would’ve probably been something unpleasant, anyway.

“Just enjoying the last moments of silence before we get back to the kids,” Stanley grunted quietly, but he was smiling, eyes fixed on the sunny road, like he was looking forward to the noise. “Were you – dreaming about sailing?”

A strange anxiety squeezed Stanford’s chest as he stared at Stanley’s blurry ear. He couldn’t remember.

“No,” he said, and then, “maybe.”

“It looked nice,” Stanley said. He sounded surprisingly wistful, surprisingly _soft_ , but maybe he was just trying not to wake Bill up.

“Where,” Stanford said, swallowing, because nothing was actually _wrong_ , and that felt wrong. “Where _are_ my glasses, anyway?”

“Oh, Bill’s wearing them,” Stanley said easily. “I let him play with them when you fell asleep. Figured we owed him _that much_ , at least. And then he conked out too.” He sounded disturbingly fond. “Look at ‘im sleep, sweet little hellmonger.”

“He’s not keeping my glasses,” Stanford said, rubbing his face. “And we don’t owe him that much. At this point we _might_ be even, _maybe_.” He paused. “No, forget it, he burned my journals.“ And tried to kill all of them multiple times, he added in his head, hastily. 

“He deserves a _smaller_ beating?” Stanley suggested.

“I think he’s _gotten_ a small beating.”

“Ya gotta work with me here, Sixer. Do we do a dump-‘n-drive or give him a big, wet _kiss_ –“

“You’re not kissing him!” Stanford yelped before he could stop himself.

He couldn’t see because his glasses had been once again spirited away by an eldritch kleptomaniac, but he knew Stanley was giving him a Look through the rear-side mirror, he just knew it. At this point, without coffee or breakfast, Stanford silently surrendered to the judgment. He deserved it.

Bill sat up suddenly, going from sleeping to awake in one fluid motion, blinking as he looked around. “We there yet?”

“No!” Stanley snapped, surprisingly heatedly. “We’re driving, genius, does it look like we’re there? Give Ford back his glasses.”

“Sheesh - I told’ya, Ace, this dumb meatsack gives me no sense of time or direction. Only burps,” Bill said, taking something off his head. “That’s why I need to ask ya!” 

“You’ve _asked_ me at least thirty times already!”

Bill smirked. “Thirty-three.” He turned, leaning between the seats, almost colliding with Stanford who’d wedged himself there to see, and both of them reared back hastily.

“My-“ Stanford started, and Bill threw the glasses at him gracelessly.

“No taunting or anything?” Stanford asked as he slipped them on, only to find Bill blinking at him. Uncertainly.

“No,” Bill said quickly, looking strangely taken aback. “I, uh. I forgot.”

“Four-eyes?” Stanford suggested after a moment of awkward silence. “Pointdexter? Visually impaired and inferior?” He felt a bit manic, trying to think of things Bill found insulting, his cheeks heating up. “ _Square_?” he prompted.

Bill barked out a sudden laugh – a cackle, really – and Stanford felt immensely relieved. “Hey, that’s good! It’s a two-for-one!” He grinned at Stanford, his eyes just two slivers of yellow, and he felt warm again.

Stanley grunted. “No wonder you got bullied so much.”

“Shut up, Ley,” Stanford said, a grin tugging in the corners of his mouth.

“Make me, nerd,” Stanley answered jovially, like they were still teenagers, and Stanford grinned for real.

“If you two start _fighting_ , I’m gonna get the axe again!” Bill said.

“You do realize you’re not allowed to start solving all your problems like that?” Stanford asked.

He thought he heard Bill mutter something along the lines of “that’s what _you_ think” but he decided to just hide the sharp instruments and let it slide. They were going to be home soon, after all.

“I can’t wait to tell the kids about this trip,” Stanley said, perking up a little. “I mean, heavily censored, of course! And I was the one who rescued us from that motel. But boy – we were like those guys from that show Mabel likes, what’sit called – Super Unnatural!” He paused. “I’m the handsome one.”

“We’re twins,” Stanford said dryly.

“Damnit, Ford! Have some imagination!”

“Looking at you, I’m going to need _lots_ of it.”

“Ahah – “ Stanley shifted and then jeered at Stanford in the mirror, so smug. “But we’re _twins_ , Fordsie.” 

“That’s it!” Bill declared over Stanford’s only slightly hysterical laughter. “You two are in a time-out! I’m driving! I can turn the wheel! Ace, unbuckle my seatbelt!”

“Hold your horses –“

“How dare you!”

“What –“ Stanley paused, confused, and then pushed on. “We just passed a sign, buddy. We’re back in Gravity Falls!”

*

 

The house had been repaired.

Correction: the house had been haphazardly patched up with what looked like the contents of a junkyard reigned over by a retired clown who still missed the circus. Even Bill would have probably made it all look less insane. Stanford felt too old for this.

Bill was wriggling in his seat impatiently, grinning like a lunatic. “I like parties!”

“Would’ya look at that!” Stanley barked out a laugh. “The little rugrats are all done with the preparations!”

No one within six mile radius would have been confused about tonight’s event, considering they’d passed at least two dozen signs that looked like they’d been born and bred from glitter, indicating where the birthday extravaganza would be held. There were tables outside, and lanterns, and what looked like an unholy union of a bouncy castle and a ball pit, and balloons tied to trees around the house. Stanford squinted.         

“What’s that on the roof?” he asked.

“Oh –“ Stanley waved his hand as he parked the car, saying it as if it made perfect sense. “Bedazzlement. Catches light real nice, doesn’t it?”

“Stanley, don’t you think all of this is a bit –“

“It’s their _birthday_ , Ford,” Stanley interrupted, forcefully, and then continued – gentler. “It’s their birthday. They’ve gone through hell in the past weeks. Just – let ‘em have this, okay?”

Stanford paused, guilt suddenly snagging somewhere in the back of his chest, as Stanley’s words hit him, because he hadn’t even _thought_ of that. He’d gone through hell a number of times and Weirdmageddon had sadly been just one of many. But Dipper and Mabel were just kids. His family.

“Oh god,” he said, horrible realization dawning. “I don’t – you’re supposed to give kids presents, right? People still do that? Get presents? Wrapped? Boxes- um -” he struggled, embarrassingly. “Bows?”

“Relax, Ford,” and Stanley undid his seat-belt, as well as Bill’s. “I got ‘em something. Just sign the card.” He paused, and then added, sternly. “This year. You’re gonna be swimming in money soon with all those gadgets so you better get ‘em something good next year. Like – hoverboards or something. Pay for their college.”

“Oh, that’ll be easy,” Stanford breathed out. “I can fix up a hoverboard by lunch time – and what do colleges cost these days? Two, three, four grand a year?”

“Oh boy,” Stanley said, getting out of the car.

Bill stumbled out of the car like a drunken moose in a liquor store, staring at the decorations.

“Not bad!” he exclaimed. “I mean, fire’s always nice. I find it gives a sort of dramatic ambiance to everything, especially if it’s _burning_ everything –“

“Stop talking,” Stanford ordered sternly, shuffling out of the car. 

“Sheesh, Sixer! I was giving yer kids a _compliment_! They’ve done a pretty good job with their pudgy little –“ Bill wriggled his fingers, as if he’d forgotten what they were called. “Grabby-feelies,” Bill concluded, and Stanford just decided to let that be.

“No,” he said firmly. “Let’s make something clear. Don’t compliment the children. Don’t give out suggestions, for the love of everything unholy. Stand very still and don’t talk at all, and _maybe_ we can convince Dipper and Mabel not to leave you tied up outside.”

“Hey, I can quiet!” Bill paused, and they stared at each other for about three heartbeats, before he grinned expectantly. “ _See_ –“

“I’ll come visit you,” Stanford said, resigned.

“ _Grunkle Stan_!”

The shriek echoed in the yard as Mabel printed like a small, (turquoise today), glittery cheetah and leapt into Stanley’s waiting arms, nearly knocking him over in the process. Stanley didn’t seem to mind, his fez lying on the grass as he spun his great-niece around. “Hey, watch it, sweetums, yer turning thirteen already! Getting a bit too heavy for me to do this!”

“Then _I’ll_ spin _you_!” Mabel declared, as Dipper jogged out in the yard.

“Get yerself over here, little man!” Stanley called out, laughing. “C’mon, one-time deal, a birthday hug from your Grunkle. Don’t be shy now!”

“I’m not _little_ ,” Dipper muttered, cheeks pink, grinning helplessly as he padded closer, swinging his arms around Stanley’s mid-section. 

“’course you’re not,” Stanley laughed, still hoisting Mabel with one arm, knocking Dipper’s hat off to tousle his hair. “Look at ya, I think you’ve grown since we took off here!”

“Really?” Dipper perked up, hopefully. “Because I think my shoes have gotten smaller – it’s a bit hard to see with the shorts, though –“

Stanford stood in the sidelines awkwardly, together with the eldritch abomination. Story of his life, really. Watching how naturally Stanley interacted with the kids, he realized he was _better_ with this when it was just Dipper and him, one-on-one. Or Stanley and him, although that was very seasonal. This felt – unnatural, an uncharted territory. Somehow he’d forgotten how to hold his arms naturally.

Mabel made sudden eye-contact with Stanford, her grin shifting from open and joyous to something a little more toned down, and she made her way over. Stanford braced himself.

“You wanna hug too, grun- great uncle Ford?” she asked, her mouth curling easily.

“Oh no, it’s fine, Mabel,” Stanford said hastily. “Please, don’t worry, a handshake is fine –“

“Well, if that’s what you –“

“You don’t have to force yourself, Mabel,” Stanford said, a little desperately, almost drowning in his own awkwardness. 

Mabel snorted. “ _Force_ myself?” And then she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Stanford – just like that. Stanford shifted, awkward, his hands raised up uselessly, before he put them very gingerly on her shoulders, and he – felt warm. Dipper let out a laugh and raced over to them, pink-cheeked, avoiding Stanford’s eyes (although Stanford avoided his as well), lunging to hug him as well. Stanley eyed Stanford with such amusement he had to restrain himself from shrugging helplessly, and then strolled over, sliding his arm easily around Stanford’s shoulders.

“Good to be back, kids,” Stanley said, gruffly.

Then he laughed, tousled Stanford’s hair and picked him up, spinning him around - extremely clumsily.

“Stanley!” Stanford yelped.

“Ow, my back!” Stanley yelled. They fell onto the grass together, in a heap of limbs and tangled trench coat, and Stanford faceplanted onto dirt and runaway glitter. The twins were laughing, and Stanley was laughing and groaning, and Stanford – Stanford was laughing too, in the midst of spitting out grass.

 

*

 

“So, he’s still here,” Dipper said, eyeing Bill, his tone unreadable, a little later on when the twins had banded together to help Stanley and Stanford back on their feet. Mabel was scowling, her arms crossed over her chest, unusually silent. The twins stood huddled next to Stanley. 

Bill waved at them.

“Yes, well,” Stanford cleared his throat. “We can’t really do much about that, now can we? He’s better off like this than free to do as he wishes –“

“Hey Pine Tree! Pine Tree! I got you and your sister a present!”

“I don’t want it,” Dipper said hastily.

Bill grinned, his weird eyes wide. “It’s the gift of my friendship!”

“I _really_ don’t want it,” Dipper said firmly.

“Can’t we just put him somewhere?” Mabel asked plaintively. “Grunkle Stan, you’ve hid tons of stuff from us, you must know some good places. Let’s put him in an iron mask!”

“Sounds like a whole lotta fun, sweetie,” Stanley started, gruffly, “but for once I think you should at least consider this.” He paused. “Consider. If you really don’t want him around, then that’s fine. I can put him in the trunk of the car, give him a trinket from the shop to play with, he’ll scream himself to sleep, easy as pie. So don’t worry about it.”

“He did – save us a few times, during the trip,” Stanford stated, uncertainly, glancing at Bill, who’d had his attention stolen away by a butterfly fluttering close to his face, his eyes wide and wondering.

As they all watched, he caught the insect mid-air and put it in his mouth.

“C’mon, buddy, at least _try_ ,” Stanley muttered.

“Well –“ Dipper hesitated. Mabel glanced at her brother, and she did a sort of a shrug as he made a face.

“We did forgive Gideon,” she said.

“But Gideon’s a – human,” Dipper argued. “He’s not some- weird megalomaniac pyramid, Mabel!”

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Stanley said hastily. “Kids, all we’re asking if you’re okay if he sticks around – and even then, if he steps one toe out of line –“

“Well,” Mabel said slowly, eyeing her brother. “You know, we could – _you_ know. That thing.”

“What thing?” Dipper asked blankly. Mabel leaned in to whisper in his ear, and his expression slowly transformed from a confused frown into a small grin.

“That might be fun,” Dipper admitted. “And it _is_ our birthday.”

“It’s totally our birthday!” Mabel cheered. They did – or rather, performed a sort of complicated high-five. Stanford remembered those. They had to be practiced, in secret, so they’d look casual when done in public.

“You got your phone, bro-bro?” Mabel asked.

“I, er,” Dipper coughed. “No, not really.”

Mabel gave him a searching look.

“Dipper,” Mabel said slowly. “Did’ya _break_ your phone while trying to take a selfie with the apocalypse?”

Dipper hung his head. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh well,” Mabel said fondly. “I bet Soos will let us use his phone. Okay, Bill, you’re in! But you have to do _everything_ we say!”

“And _wear_ everything we say,” Dipper added.

“That sounds ominous,” Stanley commented, not sounding particularly bothered by it.

“Deal!” Bill beamed, thrusting his hand for Dipper to shake. They all fell silent, staring at him, once again. “What?” Bill asked. “Sheesh. Tough crowd.” Stanley sighed, long-suffering.

“Okay, we’ve got a tight schedule today, but if we get started now, we can squeeze you in,” Mabel said briskly, gesturing imperiously. “Into the house, Bill Cipher!”

“I hope you don’t mind we invited a few people over, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper grinned. “They should be arriving any moment now.”

“A few people?” Stanford asked suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Dipper said, evasively. “A few. The town’s population is not _that_ big, right?”

“Oh boy,” Stanley clapped his hands together, rubbing them. “Okay. I can make money outta this.”

“The whole town,” Stanford said weakly. “I see. Well, it is… your birthday. I guess.” Well, he supposed he hadn’t practiced his field camouflage in a while now.

“C’mon, Bill!” Mabel called out. “We gotta get you to hair and make-up!”

“Oh boy!” Bill perked up, immediately. “ _Whose_ hair?”

Stanley started making his way towards the house, following Bill and the twins, when he paused and glanced back at Stanford, who was lingering by the car.

“You okay?” he asked. “Y’know, it’s better if people just get used to – there being two of us. It’ll be okay.” He paused. “After everything’s that happened –“

“It’s fine, Stanley,” Stanford said absently. He was staring at trees. “I’m not worried about that. Really. You go on inside, I’ll be just a minute.”

From the corner of his eye he could see Stanley hold still for a moment, before his brother shrugged and started ambling towards the house.

He’d completely forgotten about the fact that the people in Gravity Falls thought he was Stanley – or, that Stanley was him. On the road no one had really asked for his ID, and they’d just been – Stanley and Stanford. Like they used to be. He paused for a moment, reflected on the words, particularly on the phrase he’d just thought _– used to be_.

Somehow it didn’t feel as gut-wrenching as it had before, thinking about it.

Stanford shook himself out of his thoughts abruptly, rolled up his sleeves, pulled a knife from his boot, and made his way towards the birthday balloons, like he’d intended.

Better safe than sorry, after all.

 

*

 

As Stanford entered the house, he found that it had been as lovingly, if insanely, decorated as the outside, maybe even more so. He was pretty sure the paint on the walls glowed in the dark.

There was a girl, a couple of years older than Dipper and Mabel, standing by the door leading into the living room – well, not as much standing as lounging against the doorframe with effortless grace, her arms crossed over her chest, a small smile playing on her lips, and somewhere deep inside some adolescent part of Stanford still recognized her as the Cool Girl.

“Oh, hey,” she said when she spotted Stanford, and then paused. “You’re the _other_ Mr. Pines, aren’t you? The one Soos was talking about.”

Stanford cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s right. The one who came back.” He paused, a name popping into his head. “Are you Wendy? I think I saw you during the – ah, the proceedings. You were good out there.” He paused, not really sure how to compliment a young girl on her dropkick. “Would’ve liked someone like you back when I was surviving outside our dimension.”

“Yeah?” Wendy paused, eyeing Stanford critically. “Dipper says you build stuff. Like – really cool stuff. We went to your bunker at some point.” She paused, and then added, casually. “We fought a shape-shifter.”

“Oh god,” Stanford paled. “I’m so, so sorry –“

“Don’t be!” Wendy laughed. “I mean, it was pretty scary, but cool too. Totally worth the nightmares!” She paused. “So, that guy, Bill Cheiffer or whatever –“

“Cipher,” Stanford corrected automatically.

Wendy smirked. “Bill Diaper. Got it. Anyway, he’s here now? He’s the same – um, _guy_ the twins just dragged with them?”

Stanford was starting to sweat from this conversation. “That’s right – he’s at least temporarily incapacitated, completely harmless to everything except insects and pebbles which he seems to eat a lot –“

“He flew me up really high,” Wendy interrupted, eyeing Stanford – her eyes hard, for a moment. “Really high, and then he laughed and laughed, and I just _fell_. Good thing there was that pine tree.” She paused. “Is it okay if I punch him in the gut?”

Stanford exhaled, shakily. “ _Please_. Be my guest. Anything that helps.”

“Thanks!” Wendy said, brightly, pushing her hat back a little. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. P. Be cool to your brother. He’s not a bad boss.” She paused. “You guys are still gonna run the Mystery Shack, right? I don’t have to look for a new job?”

Stanford licked his lips, his throat dry.

To be honest, when he’d told Stanley to get out of his house, it’d been easy. There had been no casualties, except the one who deserved it.

“I need to ask him,” he said, in the glare of Wendy’s bright Cool Girl glow, and she winked at him, slipping through the doorway, leaving Stanford standing in the hall alone. People would probably be arriving soon – Stanford decided that maybe he did need to talk to Stanley before that.

He wandered into the kitchen, which was stocked full of foods half of which he’d never seen in his life – voices drifting through the open window.

“Okay – you’ve got your lines, right? Soos, hold that sign the other way up!” Mabel’s voice piped up.

“Oops, sorry, Mabel.”

“Okay, Bill,” Dipper’s voice put in briskly. “We wanna do this nice and easy. No grumbling, no grouching, no trying to destroy reality and everything in existence. You got me?”

Stanford wasn’t sure whether he should feel worried or not. Bill tended to take restrictions as a sort of a personal challenge.

“I got ya, Pine Tree!”

There was a pause, and then Mabel was speaking again. “And a one, and a two, and one two three – action!”

Music started playing.

“ _I’M BILL AND I WAS WRONG! I’M SINGING THIS BILL WRONG SONG!”_

Stanford had never heard anyone obliterate every right note in a song quite so thoroughly. It was actually sort of amazing. He wondered if the twins minded if he shoved a marshmallow, or a dozen, into his ear canals.

“I SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN THAT CHANCE! NOW HERE’S MY REMORSEFUL DANCE! HA CHA CHA!”

“Oh god,” Dipper groaned over the singing.

“He’s step-dancing! No one told him to do that! Where are the _kicks_?”

“I’M BILL AND I WAS _WRONG_ –“

“Mabel, it’s _all_ wrong! He’s enjoying it, Mabel! He’s _enjoying_ it!”

Stanford winced. The heights that boy’s voice could climb up to.

“I know, Dipper! I don’t know what to do!”

“- MY REMORSEFUL DANCE – ONCE MORE FOR THE FOLKS BACK AT HOME!”

“ _What_ folks?”

“There’s no business like show business, kid!”

“What?!”

Something outside crashed to the ground and Bill cackled.

“Heh, y’know, he’s not half-bad,” Soos said.

Stanford escaped the kitchen in search for Stanley. And just to escape.

Outside Bill started the song for the third time.

 

*

 

He hadn’t been upstairs since he came back, but so much of it looked the same. The wallpaper was curling in the corners and the colour felt different – as Stanford looked at it he realized that Stanley must have replaced the paper with one that matched it the best.

He pushed open the door of the room that had been, once upon a time, his bedroom and found that it too, had stayed the same, under the surface of Stanley’s life.

Stanley sat on the bed, a box, unopened, next to him, lifting his eyes when Stanford came in. Neither of them said anything at first, and he stood there, inhaled the scent of familiar cologne, the smell of dental cream, old age and _Stanley_ , and thought, long and hard, what to do. 

“So,” Stanley said gruffly, breaking the silence. “What’s the plan, Ford? You leaving?”

“Not right now,” Stanford said, softly, and then. “You took my bedroom.”

“Slept on the couch downstairs for ten years. But my back started giving out, so – sorry about that, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” Stanford said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I’m going right away. But I’d like a proper bed.”

Stanley paused, his head bowed, his massive shoulders hunched, and then he nodded curtly and stood up, tucking the box under his arm.

“Give me a couple of hours to clean it out, and then you can – “

“Another – bed,” Stanley said, hastily, and added, when Stanley turned to stare at him. “You’ve slept here far longer than I have.” He paused. “I don’t think I could ever get that smell out of the mattress.”

Stanley huffed out a little laugh, and Stanford smiled, weakly. Here they stood, him and his brother, a strange old man who looked like their dad and laughed like that kid who still ghosted somewhere in Stanford’s memories. One moment he didn’t know this person at all, some stranger in his house and his life, keeping him constantly on edge – and the next, Stanley was like some anchor holding him in place, making him a _part_ of something.

The way he saw it, he could either drift away or not.

“Stanley,” he started, and swallowed, his mind going blank.

“Stanford,” Stanley prompted, after a moment, his head cocked – a small crooked smile playing on his lips. And Stanford still couldn’t think of what to say. There were things, between them. There was no magic wand, no miracle solution, to wipe the slate clean, no single confrontation to make everything better.

“I’m sorry I said I didn’t want to – that I didn’t want you to be my – brother,” Stanford said, quietly, haltingly. “I was angry. Obviously, I was angry. I’m just –“

Stanley rubbed his ear, turning to look away, uncomfortably. “Look,” he interrupted, a little roughly. “I get it. I felt it too. I thought it’d be – I don’t even know who you _are_ , anymore.”

Never had words filled Stanford with more strange relief. “You don’t? I mean – that’s exactly what I – I know who you are! But it’s like I feel this – _obligation_ to act like your my brother when you –“

“When it feels like you’re hanging out with a total stranger, yeah,” Stanley agreed, still looking away, jaw set. “I guess that’s why I pushed it a little too hard. I wasn’t just trying to convince _you_ – I was trying to convince myself too.”

“So,” Stanford started uncertainly. “What do we do now?”

Stanley took a deep breath, staring at the wall, and then dropped the box he was holding back onto the bed.

“Dunno. You wanna like – give this a shot?” he barely glanced at Stanford, like he was afraid of what he might see there. “Just stick around for a while – the two of us, once the twins go back home, and – well, Bill. Kinda seems like we’re stuck with Bill.”

“And Soos and Wendy,” Stanford said. “I don’t think I can fire her, she might hurt me.”

Stanley barked out a sudden, startled laugh, turned and stared at Stanford. “Wait – are you saying I can keep – going, with the Shack and everything? Is that what you’re trying to say here? Be very clear with me, Fordsie, you know what a dum-dum I am.”

Stanford’s mouth curled, in response to his brother’s, helplessly. “I don’t think I can fire Soos either. He’s got _very_ soulful eyes.”

“Like some frigging twin ponds in some magical faerie forest.” Stanley laughed, running his fingers through his hair – and Stanford was startled, startled and pained, to see his hands shaking. “I was gonna make him ask ya too, in case you said no to me – oh boy – “

“Well, I’m sure glad you didn’t,” Stanford remarked, crossing the room, to sit on the bed gingerly. “I don’t think I could’ve taken that kind of pressure.”

“The kid’s got a way about him,” Stanley said, flashing a shaky grin at Stanford, grateful for the pretense as he sat down heavily next to him.

For a moment, they were quiet, their shoulders touching, sitting side by side, before a thought stirred in Stanford’s mind.

“What’re we going to do about my name?” he asked, quietly.

Stanley shrugged. “You could take mine. Or – I guess there are a couple of outstanding warrants there –“

“Are there any for Stanford Pines?”

Stanley coughed. “So – I have a big stash of fake IDs too, if you’d like to –“ he paused, studying the expression on Stanford’s face, and then concluded. “I don’t know, bro. I never thought – well, I just never thought this far.” He lowered his voice. “I just wanted you back.”

“What about just telling the truth?” Stanford asked, swallowing. “At least to people out here. I mean, I guess we could always just _share_ my name.”

“The truth, huh?” Stanley blinked. “Wow, that’s a – I’d never have thought of _that_.” He paused, genuinely puzzling that over. “The _truth_. Huh. Well, I mean –“

“Foreign concept for you, huh?”

“You have to take a lead on that one,” Stanley said slowly. “I have no idea how to go about telling the truth, Ford, cards on the table.” He paused, adding, in wondering undertones. “The _truth_.”

“I can do that,” Stanford said, rubbing his face. “I’m sure we won’t be the strangest thing around here anyhow. We should fit in nicely.” He paused, nudging Stanley’s – and his – worn carpet with his toes. Somehow it felt easier – just a tad – to sit here, with his brother, like this. And it was a nice change of staring at the back of Stanley’s head. He’d already said the worst things, done the worst things – and yet, here they were. Suddenly, Stanford realized he’d been sort of afraid of this – of Stanley’s eyes, constantly on him like they were searching or pleading for the things Stanford couldn’t be. But he hadn’t been the only one who’d felt this way.

“I gotta ask you, for real,” Stanley said abruptly. “Ford, are you in love with Bill Cipher?”

“Ley,” and Stanford paused, gathering his words in order. “I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”

“And you act like a crazy person around him,” Stanley said bluntly. “All the time, you’re either smitten like a kitten or you’re trying to claw his eyes out –“

“Why am I _cat_ in this scenario –“

“Hey,” Stanley interrupted loudly. “Listen. It’s okay. War’s over. Look at us.” He gestured at himself. “Don’tcha think at this point we can just do things for the hell of it?”

“Do things,” Stanford said, voice hollow. “I don’t think it’s even possible. For me to love him or him to love me. I’m just –“ he searched for the word, not finding it. “I’m stuck. I’m stuck to him. And now he’s stuck to me too. What is that? What can that even be called?”

“Marriage?” Stanley suggested dryly.

“Stanley, _really_ –“

“No, listen,” Stanley said, lifting his hands to settle Stanford down. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve really thought about it.” And an odd expression flashed across his face, just briefly. “And I think I’ve got the hang of it. So he doesn’t feel like we do. He doesn’t think like we do. But it doesn’t have to _matter_ – as long as he still – well, as long as he still goes all axe-murderer for ya. You get it? You don’t have to toss and turn and agonize over things you can’t control – because maybe he’s never gonna understand some things but he _really_ wants to keep you around, Ford. He really does.”

“But what if he _stops_ wanting one day?” Stanford asked, hoarsely. “What then?”

“Well,” Stanley said, his mouth quirking, crookedly. “See, the thing is – it never killed _me_.”

They fell silent, again, two old men sitting on a bed, hunched and greying. Stanford mulled over Stanley’s words – he wasn’t sure what Stanley was mulling over, with the way he stared at nothing, but he was quiet, nonetheless.

Finally, Stanford spoke, quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Stanley said, simply, and then. “Sometimes it’s worth it. Not always – but sometimes, it has been.”

“Good to know,” Stanford said, subduedly. He stirred, staring at his shoes, and then added, in a different tone, evenly. “This bed smells like you’ve spent thirty years farting into it every night.”

“You keep quiet, unless you want your face rubbed into it, ya nerd,” Stanley said serenely.

 

*

 

And then there was the party.

The whole town had really come – there were people milling in and out, the house and yards around the house both full of faces Stanford didn’t recognize nor did he really care to. Any other night, any other event, he would’ve retreated into the basement, but Dipper and Mabel were worth his newfound agoraphobia.

Stanley spiking his drinks for him had helped to take the edge off too.

There had been couple of awkward moments, throughout the night, such as when the cakes had been brought out and Mabel had told Bill that only people who _hadn’t_ attempted to destroy the world got to have some.

“Well, that seems a bit rude!” Bill had said, gesturing at Stanford like he was genuinely indignant. “I mean, he’s _related_ to you and everything!”

The twins had actually engaged into a brief furious discussion over the rules at this point.

It had been settled that people who’d tried to bring forth the apocalypse didn’t get any cake, _unless_ they’d tried to fix things too. Stanford had surprised himself by how grateful he’d felt, getting a piece of that cake. He’d earned it, damnit.

Then, a little later, there’d been Fiddleford.

It had been a bit of a shock – no, it had been a nasty shock, a big shock, to see him again, and see the state his intelligent, kind, clever friend had been reduced to. And he’d been told Fiddleford was doing much better these days – that he wore shoes, finally, and he’d moved back in with his son. That he was remembering things again.

Stanford, who’d felt so relaxed, so at ease before, sat on the stairs with his head in his hands and Fiddleford’s hand on his shoulder, listening to him talk haltingly while he held back – because he wasn’t the one who was supposed to break down, here.

It was another one of the same, yet another stranger, but this time, Stanford was deeply, painfully guilty for not feeling at ease with this person.

“Do you think you can ever forgive me?” he’d asked, the staircase abandoned, his voice hoarse and quiet, barely carrying over the party.

Fiddleford had paused, leaning his bony arms against his knees, and stared into space for a moment.

“Ah reckon that’s feasible,” he’d said, finally, evenly, and when Stanford had turned to stare, he’d smiled, like the person he once knew, like he’d said it on purpose.

They’d sat like that a while longer, Fiddleford’s hand on his back, and Stanford had struggled to hold back some dark, bitter grief over years lost, fearing they were going to flow over.

He’d returned to the party and snapped at Stanley, and snapped at Bill, because he couldn’t help it. He’d made up with Stanley again almost immediately, though – watching Bill get sucker-punched by Wendy in the middle of the impromptu dance floor had helped a lot. People had clapped and cheered. Mabel had ordered Mabel-punch to be passed around. Everything had turned into a bit of a blur, after that.

And now, the crowd had thinned, from well-wishers to the closer friends, teenagers and kids, for the most part, but quite a few older faces that Stanford assumed were Stanley’s friends. Mabel was still on the dance floor, with a flock of girls her age, laughing and spinning like she was never going to stop, holding hands with a blonde girl who’d brought her an actual pony as a present. Dipper was holding court with teenagers older than him, Wendy sitting by his side, and they’d switched hats – she was wearing hers with the cap turned backwards, listening to whatever Dipper was explaining with a fond little smile. The teens were holding out their phones and talking about a “selfie”, whatever that was, hooting and laughing.

Stanford made his way to the living room, where Stanley, disregarding the guests still in the house, had taken over the armchair like some scarred, satisfied alley cat.

“Did’ya see that tiny horse outside?” Stanley asked. “Sheesh! The kid’s building up a frigging zoo in here – I’ve had hard enough time convincing her parents to let her keep the pig.” He paused, mouth curling. “Good party, though.”

Stanford looked around, for a flash of yellow.

“Have you seen Bill?” he asked.

Stanley leaned back, closing his eyes contently. “Not since I gave him a drink after Wendy hit ‘im.”

Stanford hesitated, standing there for a moment, weighing his options – and then he took off, leaving his brother dozing.

“Bill!” he called out, triangles staring at him from the windows and the carpets. “Bill!”

He went through the kitchen, the shop, the bathroom, all the rooms that he knew and remembered, and he was calm, and didn’t think about when he’d last seen Bill – hours ago – and that nothing actually bound Bill here except his human body, and he could pilot that thing wherever he wished to go. 

He finally found Bill in the attic, the last place he looked, sitting under a window shaped in his image. The dream demon had his knees pulled against his chest, a red plastic cup sitting by his right, and he was holding a single Dorito chip between his thumb and a forefinger, staring at it with unblinking, unsettled intensity, before he turned that gaze on Stanford, holding it out to him.

“What is this?” Bill rasped, his voice voice small, as if everything he’d known had been wrong. “ _What is this_?”

“I – “ Stanford paused. “How much have you been drinking?” He stepped forward and picked up Bill’s cup. Most of the Mabel punch was still there, but he put it up out of Bill’s reach, anyway.

Bill, in the meanwhile, looked at the chip for a moment longer, before he solved his momentary identity crisis by eating it.

“Nice party!” Bill said brightly and held out his hand. Stanford hesitated for a moment, before he took it, pulling Bill up to his feet.

“ _You_ think so?” he asked, skeptically. Bill flashed a grin, sans one tooth, and peered up at him like he found the question amusing.

“Sure! I mean, maybe not the kind of party I would’ve thrown – you know _that_ , Sixer – but hey, you gotta start somewhere! Did’ya know I can fit thirty-three marshmallows in my mouth?”

“So that’s where they went,” Stanford remarked absently.

“Red dared me to,” Bill preened. “After she hit me! Funny, I asked if she could do it again and she said no!”

“Don’t ask – people to hit you,” Stanford said slowly, looking down at Bill. “They’ll get the wrong impression.”

“Well, _apparently_ , since she did the opposite!”

Stanford looked at Bill, and then put his hand very deliberately on Bill’s shoulder – his bare shoulder, feeling the skin there, feeling the warmth.

“Don’t ask people to hit you,” he repeated, quieter. “Because then they might.”

“You going soft on me now, Sixer?” Bill asked, smirking crookedly.

“Well, you only have so many teeth left,” Stanford said evenly. “Someone might argue the originals are better than the prosthetic.” He paused. “I needed to talk to you.”

“You always do,” Bill said. “And good news to ya, Sixer – we’re talking right now!”

“About something,” Stanford said patiently. “About – “ he paused, feeling utterly ridiculous as he completed that sentence. “About _us_.”

Bill paused, and looked at Stanford, his eyes glowing, steady and warm and strange, in the dark attic.

“What about us?” Bill asked. “Y’know, I was under the _impression_ we had an understanding. I thought you got it – you said _I_ got it –“

“Yes,” Stanford said, his voice lowering, hastily. “You do. You do, Bill. But I – humans need this. I need this – I need to know what things _are_.”

Bill paused, staring at Stanford, blank and mute, and he knew he’d lost him – that Bill just didn’t comprehend, not really. Stanford grappled with the words shouting over each other in his head, words that Bill wouldn’t get or experience – and then finally, he breathed out.

“I want things. I want to be happy,” he said, swallowing, feeling his throat dry out. “I want my family to be happy, and safe. I want –“ he hesitated.

“Could give ya a nifty finger I found on a mens’ room floor,” Bill whispered up at him, almost tenderly.

“No, and we’re burying that tomorrow. Bill –“

 “There’s a _pony_ downstairs that could suffer an accident,” Bill said speculatively. Stanford shifted and grasped his arms, firmly.

“Stop _guessing_ ,” he said.

Bill laughed, low and amused. “You never let me guess, IQ.”

“That’s because everything you say is awful,” Stanford said lowly. “You’re an awful, awful person, Bill.” Bill laughed. He shifted, tightening his grip a little. “I don’t even know why I’m up here. I don’t even know why I want _you_.”

Bill paused, his eyes gleaming, and slowly, _slowly_ he smiled – and Stanford should have found that smile alarming, like a mouse watching a cat smile, but everything in Bill was alarming and wrong and horrible, and somehow it had grown on him _anyway_. Maybe this was what he liked in his life, post-Portal.

Bill was sort of cute when he was this smug.

“My, my my, Stanford Pines,” Bill said.

“Yes,” Stanford said hoarsely. “That, exactly.”

“My Stanford,” Bill said, tilting his head like a bird, an alien in a flesh-suit, wondering, and Stanford let out a shaky huff of laughter, shifting closer. He had no idea what he was doing.

“Just stay,” he said – or perhaps pleaded, more like it. “Just stay for a while, Bill. Maybe I’m just a drop in your ocean, but you owe me at least this much – you owe me for taking half of my life. I want this.”

“Humans always want things,” Bill said absently, and lifted his hand, toying with Stanford’s sweater. “You wouldn’t _believe_ some of the things I’ve been asked – well, maybe you would, you guys aren’t exactly kings of imagination –“

“Bill –“

“I want things too,” Bill continued. “Y’know? And hey, I’m not stupid! You won’t give me my powers back, will ya, you won’t release me – “

“I can’t –“

“ _Just worship me_.” Bill’s eyes shone like lamps, and Stanford stood frozen in their glow like a rabbit in headlights as Bill continued, lowly. “Just a lil – just _a lil bit_ , Stanford Pines – that’s what I want - hey, I know, I know I’m in this unimpressive cover, it’s weird and _squishy_ and ugly –“

“I think you’re beautiful,” Stanford said, the words rushing out of his mouth, stumbling over each other.

Bill froze, staring at him, his hand still on Stanford’s collar, his expression wondering.

Stanford struggled, for what was supposed to come next. Ah, yes.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“What –“ and Bill still looked wide-eyed, genuinely taken aback – a good look on him – staring at Stanford, “What’s a kiss?”

“I could show you,” Stanford said very quietly, his throat dry, and it was laughable, really, that he’d never done this before and yet Bill had him beat on the inexperience.

He leaned in, and their lips met clumsily, wet and awkward, and Stanford didn’t know where to put his hands, whether to pull Bill closer or hold him in place, Bill’s hair tickling against his face. As he pulled back, Bill licked his lips, thoughtfully.

“Well, that was terrible!” he declared, and Stanford felt his chest go cold with anxiety; but Bill grinned, and took off Stanford’s glasses, putting them on himself, and then Stanford found himself pulled closer by the lapels of his shirt, and he had no choice, really, no choice _at all_ but to put his arms around Bill properly.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” Bill said.

They did.

It was better the second time around.

 


End file.
